Forever Yours
by d'elfe
Summary: This is a series of one shots concentrating on Tristan and Frances, my OC. When two souls are destined to meet... nothing can keep them apart. Each short story is independent of the previous one, and will present my favourite couple in a different setting. Past or present, situations and occupations reversed, everything is possible.
1. Introduction

So. Those are variations of the same love story featuring Frances and Tristan is many, many, many different settings. Since it is taking more importance than I previously thought it would, I'll update this first chapter with the summaries of the stories I wrote about my two favourite people. You're allowed to get bored, the ending is nearly always the same 😊

Well. I have read two pieces, in two different fandoms, that have inspired this bout. Basically, the 'bizarre holidays' series in the stargate fandom, and 'In every breath, life or universe' in Ruroni Kenshin are a series of one shots, or two shots that tell the story of two people destined to be together. Or to meet. So I heartily thank their authors for the inspiration.

I thought I would apply this principle to Frances and Tristan. Each showing a moment of one Frances and one Tristan's life. Modern world, medieval, King Arthur or something entirely different. Roles and occupation will change, timeline as well. This is purely variations on the same theme.

It's time for you to tell me which kind of encounter, or piece of life you want to read about. Death, life, children, modern world, WWII, anything is possible really. I have so far 12 ideas listed. Give me more!

**Vancouver: **Tristan is an actor that happens to stumble upon a mischievious one year old chased way by his redhead mother on the beach… Modern setting. Three parts, four very soon.

**Woads: **Frances joins the fight with the Woads and the Bishop, earning the ire of her husband, the fearsome scout. 5th century. One part.

**Your lastest trick: **Tristan is attending a Dire Straits concert. Further down, a lovely redhead is dancing, calling his attention. Modern setting. One part.

**Alive: **What if Frances had managed to bring Tistan back from Badon Hill, saving his life and bringing him in the 21st century ? Modern setting. Five parts.

**Freedom: **Frances is pregnant with Tristan's child and happens to give birth during the battle of Badon Hill. 5th century. Two parts.

**Seamstress: **Tristan stumbles upon bandits that are about to rape Frances on the road. He offers protection. 5th century. Six parts and epilogue.

**The axe and the log: **Frances is Shadow, a hitwoman whose reputation outshines that of the Black Kaiser. Her mission: killing Duncan Vizla. Based on **'Polar'**. Modern setting. Two parts.

**God**: Father Tristan is a priest in Frances' town church. One day, she takes a peek inside, even though she is areligious. Discussion ensues. Seventh parts... and growing.


	2. Vancouver part I

**_Hey. I don't know why I was inspired by the beach. anyway. Tristan is here an actor … rings a bell with an actor we know well, uh? Unmarried, younger as well. I hope you enjoy._**

He had spotted the toddler on his way down the coast. The little boy, probably no more than two years of age, had graced him with such a mischievous smile as he passed by that his heart had molten on the spot. Bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks, a laugh that could rival with any tinkle of bells from the wood fairies and an easy-going manner, the toddler ran back and forth into the pacific ocean, splashing cold water in his wake. His mother was not far away, her keen eyes fixed on the child. He didn't linger on her lean silhouette, took a moment to marvel at the reddish braid falling to her waist until his gaze returned to the boy. The game went on and on. The little boy unfazed by the temperature as he ran with all the strength of his little legs, laughing all the way.

It was not yet June, but the sun shone heartily, warming up the sand beneath his bare feet. The toddler probably felt the heat underneath his soft skin as well. Tristan ran past the little boy with a hearty smile, wondering if he would ever have the chance to have such a lovely child of his own. His long legs took him south, lungs inhaling the sea breeze to his heart's content. What he would give to claim the innocence of those early days! But life was good, now. He had two more seasons to shoot off the TV series he co-starred with a friend, he'd been freed by his latest annoying girlfriend, and Tristan felt some kind of connection to this place. Vancouver treated him well. At barely thirty, his horizon seemed to clear up a little. Twenty minutes later, Tristan turned around. The tide was coming in, chasing him further inland. Already, his first tracks had been eaten by the greedy waves.

Cries echoed in the air; nothing abnormal for a late afternoon on the beach. Still, the desperate undertone called for his attention. Tristan lifted his head, looking for a commotion, until he spotted the toddler anew. His mother was standing, calling his name as his tinkling laugh echoed on the beach. But the child refused to turn around, running away with all the strength of his chubby legs. For a little one, he sure could put some distance. The woman darted behind him, determined. Her legs started pumping in the wet sand to reach her misbehaving child. From the angry sway of the long reddish braid on her back, there would be quite a scolding. Tristan smiled, amused by the scene as he finished his own lap. He was about to bifurcate to reach for his bag – and pair of sandals – he had left on the dry sand when he saw the woman stumble. Her ankle bent sideways, and she cried out in pain as she fell roughly onto her knees.

— "Damn!" she exclaimed, pissed beyond measure.

Unfortunately, the toddler kept on running, oblivious of her predicament. Then she scrambled to her feet, and started running anew, her limp so pronounced that it threatened to send her toppling over. Once out of two, her right foot barely touched the ground. Damn, she shouldn't be running on a sprained ankle! But such was the obstination of mothers whenever their cubs were in danger.

Tristan altered his course, accelerating to reach the woman. He was by her side in less than ten seconds, chest heaving from the strain after such a good workout.

— "Are you alright?" he asked worriedly as he grabbed her arm to straighten her.

Hazel eyes turned to him, startled at his appearance beside her. Her defined features were contorted in pain, and panic shone in her gaze.

— "Can you get him?" she asked frantically, pointing at the child. "He can't swim. Get him before he drowns, please."

Her words were slightly slurred, deformed by an accent he didn't recognise. Not unlike his own.

— "Stay put, I'll get him," he ordered.

He knew she wouldn't listen and follow, but his longer legs covered the distance. And what a distance, for such a little boy! The child sure knew how to run. It took a little longer than expected to catch up with him, but mere moments later, he hoisted the boy in his arms. The toddler, surprised, started yelling his disagreement, twisting and turning in his grasp so that cold water splashed all over him. Tristan had to tighten his grip not to let the child fall such were his contortions. And no matter how soothing his reassuring words were, the toddler would have none of it. Until Tristan lost his patience, and eventually raised his voice.

— "Stay put, little monster. Mama is coming."

The child blinked, either mesmerised by his voice, either too afraid to continue thrashing. Then he turned to his mother, limping her way along the shoreline, and lifted his arms in welcome.

— "Maman !", he said, his smile widening at seeing the familiar figure.

The young woman gave the child a tired smile, then turned her grateful gaze to him.

— "You can let go, now. Thank you so much, sir…"

Tristan bent over, setting the child on his feet before he straightened. His t-shirt, soaked with sweat and sea salt, clung to his form in an undignified manner. Once his arms were free, he brushed the stray strands of his hair away from his face. They were slightly longer now, because of the show.

— "I'm Tristan," he offered.

The toddler ran into his mother's arms so abruptly that she nearly toppled over. Gathering the child to her chest, she addressed him a stern look that spoke of retribution.

— "Never do that again, you hear me?"

Her voice was low, her tone unforgiving, eyes serious. But she didn't yell. Her point was made, for the child suddenly decided to nest in the crook of her neck. She could then report her attention to Tristan, her light brown eyes softening.

— "I thank you again, Sir Tristan."

A title fit for a knight of the round table. A cheeky smile appeared on the woman's face, her rosy lips curling up. It gave her a catlike expression, one that her chiselled features bore with ease, and that along her twinkling almond eyes, would probably get her anything she wanted. Now he understood where the toddler got his charm from. Responding with a smile of his own, Tristan dismissed her concerns.

— "Ah, no. Tristan only, although it has a nice ring to it. You're welcome, by the way. I'm glad I'm not old enough that a toddler outrun me yet."

A soft laugh escaped her lips at that.

— "Well, I'm probably older than I look. He got me proper this time."

She wasn't moving, the child curled in her arms as if the exhaustion of the afternoon had eventually caught up. Still, he could clearly see she favoured her left leg. Tristan took a few steps forward, trying to look non-threatening. With his height, he towered easily over most women and knew his presence could unsettle them. But she didn't move an inch, her eyes only observing.

— "Little legs, but such energy!" he added, pointing to the bare and very frozen chubby legs safely encased in his mother's arms.

The young woman snorted.

— "Yeah, I swear he siphons it from me … or it's the uranium petals I gave him at breakfast. Either way, I'm no match for him. Now I know what my parents felt like at the end of the day."

So this is where the energy was from. Tristan wondered idly how much of his father the adorable toddler took from. Until the woman shifted, and winced in pain.

— "How's the ankle?"

— "Sore," came her grumbled response.

Tristan frowned. She looked worried, probably thinking about the logistics of taking care of a hyperactive two year old when you couldn't walk properly. Slowly, but surely, she started trailing back, limping profusely.

— "Do you want me to call the medics?" he asked.

Her expression turned into one of a deer caught in headlights. Then her features tightened, resolve setting in.

— "Naaah. Give it a few days. Plus, I really don't want to make him wait for his snack with people prodding at me. It would be my little personal hell if someone had to tend to my leg while I try to restrain him. I'll just wrap it up at home."

The strange accent was here again, difficult to pinpoint. But Tristan had no issue imagining the scene, and let out a chuckle.

— "Yes, I can see it from there."

The toddler was already wailing about wanting to walk, and his mother set him down with a huff. Tristan eyed the stubborn little man warily, checking that he wasn't taking off again. His blond hair, a mix of gold and white, was partially plastered to the side by sea water. The rest of him was covered in sand. Washing him would probably be a mighty struggle.

— "You've got someone around to help you home?" he asked.

— "Er. No. Not here. I'm rather on my own, but I live close by so I won't have to drive. Yay me"

The irony in her voice wasn't lost, as if she was to blame for twisting her ankle. Tristan shook his head, his own decision taken. He met her gaze squarely as he offered his assistance, trying to convey that his genuine concern with no second thoughts hidden beneath the surface.

— "I'm sorry I am not very presentable, but if you let me, I will help you home."

The young woman paused, nibbling on her lower lip in an adorable expression. The sight of her small pink tongue sliding across was distracting as hell.

— "I'm afraid I'll have to swallow my pride this once, because I have no idea how to manage without help. But I don't want to impair on your day."

— "Don't worry about it. I'm off until tomorrow."

At this, the young woman smiled. A true, genuine expression that lightened up her face and made her eyes twinkle. It was incredible, the light that resided in the depth of her light chocolate eyes. Or were they hazel?

— "I'll never thank you enough, Sir Tristan."

So she wanted to play, uh? Tristan gave her a mock bow, catching her eyes with such an intense gaze that she froze.

— "It is my pleasure, fair lady."

The joke called colour to her cheeks, and he had to admit that the contrast on her fair skin complimented her well. Then the child reached for both of their hands, and they slowly, but surely made way to her belongings. For a moment, as he held the little fingers, Tristan wondered what they looked like, the two of them with a child merrily bouncing in between. The word popped into his mind easily. A family.

The walk back was difficult for Frances, and she was more than grateful for Tristan's assistance. Usually, she would have covered it in five minutes, holding the fifteen pounds of William in a hand, and her bag in the other. She was no stranger to physical effort, and her muscles were coiled and efficient, her gait light as she trod along the paths of life. But the swell of her ankle had got worse and it hurt like hell. As they climbed the steps to exit the beach, Tristan removed her bag from her own hands, hoisting little Willy on his shoulders, and offered his arm for her to lean on. The guy was a serious multitasker, as well as a sturdy mule, aside from being built like a Greek God, that is. The intensity of his gaze only added to his charm. Even covered in sweat and rolled up in the sand, the guy definitely had everything. For the moment, though, she was only happy he had offered his help. His solid frame and gentleness were so very welcome.

Calling the medics might have dented her already plummeting finances badly, and she didn't want to have to deal with international paperwork. Yuck! Frances wondered how Tristan's wife, or girlfriend, might react if she witnessed him with another woman at his arm and a child on his shoulders. She hoped they might be lenient enough to let her live. Not that she couldn't defend herself. Even impaired, Frances' training at Interpol assured her to be victorious against normal people. She had no qualms over crashing someone's nose into its skull if needed. One of the reasons why she had accepted the help of Tristan in the first place. Should the man try anything, he'd be unconscious and handcuffed in less time than it took to sneeze. But somehow, she doubted that. His offer seemed genuine, his manners nothing but open.

Conversation flowed easily as they trod through the streets, and she learnt that his peculiar accent came from Denmark. And also that he was an actor, which made sense because most US TV series were shot in Vancouver studios. She told him of her last job in France, at Interpol, and was pleasantly surprised when he didn't pry about the reasons she had quit altogether. This gruesome story was best left unsaid to strangers.

— "So you are on vacation presently?" he gently prodded.

— "Yeah. My family gave me a sum of money, and told me to get somewhere to chill for a while."

He seemed genuinely surprised.

— "And of all the places of the world, you chose here?"

Frances laughed. Yes, it should have been a weird choice for sure, not to go to the Carribeans, or the Seychelles, or Italy, or wherever. But she always wanted to visit Canada, and she had housed her older brother as he finished his latest mission.

— "My brother was there the last two weeks. He just flew back to Mexico to his wife."

— "But you stayed?"

His voice was smooth, like a caress. The accent only emphasised its soothing tones and she couldn't help leaning a little into him just to hear the rumble of his chest. Damn, the man was magnetic up close, she needed to get a grip. Unfortunately, the pain shooting her leg didn't help. And her little boy, perched upon his shoulders, seemed to have taken a liking to his hair which he tussled with his sand filled hands. Frances sighed, renouncing to stop Will lest he threw a fit, and decided she would throw the man into the shower instead.

— "I don't know why, but things feel … relaxed here. It's like being on another continent, without living in the craziness of the US."

— "I can relate to that. In Denmark, things are simple. More quiet than in the US. I can find some of the spirit here as well"

Will choose this moment to pull on a lock his long brownish hair. A slight wince and his mother immediately scolded the kid.

— "Be gentle, William"

Tristan's other hand came to rest on the kid's back.

— "Ah don't worry. I got plenty of hair still."

Frances gave him a lopsided smile.

— "You're too nice. He'll have you wrapped around his little finger before you know it."

— "I'm afraid this battle is already lost."

It was heartwarming, to see such gentleness from a stranger. Frances knew William had a bonus with most people. The child was just too charming for his own good, not unlike the cat in the Shrek movies. One smile, one pleading look, and everybody would fall at his feet. The worst was that William knew his power over others, like a Jedi who just had to wave its hand. The best way to go was to ignore him for now. And truth be told, Tristan's face called some memories; she wondered in which movie she'd seen him. Frances wasn't a great cinephile, she tended to forget actors' names as soon as her head hit the pillow, concentrating on the characters they played instead. It would have been so very rude to ask him that she tried a circumvoluted question.

— "I guess you probably have some wild moments at premières and ceremonies."

Rather than giving more information on the last even he'd attended, Tristan barely grunted. He didn't seem like the type to enjoy the attention then.

— "Yes. There's only so much hassle a man can handle."

Frances laughed as he chuckled.

— "I also enjoy the quiet, but Willy scarcely agrees with me. It's crazy how that kid enjoys noise. Right sweetie?"

— "Mama" he answered from his perch, blue eyes twinkling.

At last, they made it to the apartment complex that housed her for the time being.

— "So where to?" asked Tristan as he took in the inner courtyard that led to several doors.

It was a very innocent question, but Frances was, for once, compelled to speak the truth. The man was a good listener, a stranger that would disappear from her life the minute after next. A nice encounter that would leave a little trail of trust in the world.

— "For now, entrance 1B, over there. As for my life, I am here to reflect on what comes next."

Her comment was unanswered, and very soon, it was all a matter of not leaving sand on the carpeted floors, and trying to fit everybody's feet into the bathtub while William danced in the two inches of water that gathered at the bottom. It was a pretty apocalypse, one that made Tristan laugh and Frances pull her hair out. But there was some merriment in her gaze as she watched them interact. It sent a tug to her heart. She knew William needed a male presence in his life, he missed it. The toddler always went searching for men in a crowd, looking for a father who had fled to Africa in a humanitarian mission the moment he had learnt of her pregnancy. Frances wasn't angry anymore, but she had trust issues.

How could she let a man crash into her life, knowing there was a possibility that he could leave afterwards? There could only be a trail of destruction left behind, the shards of her hearts only minor compared to the abandonment of her son. Yet, as she rested her ankle on a stool, watching Tristan as he offered to wash and dress William under her instructions, her heart swelled. It was just too cute to be true. The strange sensation to be watching a window in the future hit her, and she stirred from her perch.

— "Well, Sir Tristan. You are a life saviour, the true embodiment of a knight. And to thank you, I hope you will agree to partake in the chocolate cake that we made this morning."

The man adjusted William's pyjama cuffs before he addressed her a gentle smile.

— "My fair lady, I accept your offer happily. There is nothing like chocolate after a good run."

— "I'll make some tea. If you wish to shower, now that you are truly soaked, feel free to use the bathroom."

Tristan considered the idea, his gaze stuck into William's wide blue eyes. There was a plea in the child's gaze, some sort of unspoken question. Where was the child's father? The idea of a nice hot shower appealed to him, but here was nothing more than a sweatshirt in his bag.

— "I would have accepted but I have nothing to change into."

— "Well, that's too bad. I got nothing to offer that could possibly fit you. And for once, my brother left nothing, a miracle."

He smiled good-naturedly at the jab, his chest suddenly unburdened by the knowledge that she had no men's clothes around. 'Stop it,' screamed his mind. 'A little respect for the lady.'

— "I'll just refresh and join you. Home-made cake sounds nice."

— "Sure. Come, Willy, let us give space to the gentleman for a grooming."

And the child reached for her hand as she limped out of the bathroom, leaving him in an unfamiliar setting with tons of sand buried in his hair.

Will had already engulfed his chocolate cake when Tristan emerged from the bathroom, and Frances settled him in front of a set of French songs on the TV. She was in the process of serving two cups of sencha – a Japanese green tea – when he joined her at the bar separating the tiniest of kitchens to the living room. The young woman was limping to and fro, beads of anxiety dancing through her veins at having invited a man into her home. But when Tristan settled on a stool, one of his arms leaning against the counter, his relaxed presence settled her nerves. She didn't join him, though, preferring, for the moment, to stay on the other side. It allowed her to keep an eye on William and Tristan in the same line of sight, a professional quirk some may say.

— "Dig in," she told him, her chin designating the plate she had piled up with pieces of chocolate cake.

Tristan didn't need to be asked twice. The smell alone made his stomach grumble.

— "Ah, thank you. It looks delicious."

The young woman set the tea mug beside him, and a glass of water. She had not forgotten how he'd come to her aid after his run, and not drunk anything ever since. The full tank disappeared in less time than it took to blink – with mumbled thanks – and next followed the first piece of cake.

— "My son is addicted to chocolate," she told him as he hummed his appreciation.

Tristan munched slowly, his tongue taking in the incredible smoothness of the cake, and mix of flavours. His eyes widened slightly as he ate, their colour greyish in the afternoon light. Then the verdict came, unbidden.

— "Wow, I understand why the addiction. This is fantastic!"

Blushing, Frances pushed the plate back to him.

— "Help yourself. It won't compensate for the effort you made to bring us all the way here, but I'm glad you enjoy it."

— "If I had known, I would have given you a piggy back ride every day of the past week."

Frances' laugh tinkled in the room, and she limped to the stool beside him, pointing to the mountain of chocolate pieces. Tristan gave her a mock-stern look, cocking his head aside, a strand of his brownish hair falling over his eyes.

— "Don't tempt me, I'll eat the whole plate."

The young woman quirked a perfect eyebrow.

— "Bah. It's not like you have to fear extra kilos, right? Be nice, and take them away from my sight."

A slight hue of rose coloured her cheeks at that. Frances had easily picked up on his lean form, especially as she clung to his side for about half a mile.

— "No. It's true. I have a high metabolism, I never manage to put on weight."

— "Bear a child. It does wonder to your silhouette," she deadpanned.

Had she not been a very fresh acquaintance, Tristan might have retorted how beautiful her silhouette was. For Frances was still lean, her body packed with efficient muscles. Dare he remark that motherhood had probably added a little plush here and there, all in the right places? His retort, though, was less serious.

— "Sadly, I lack the material to be a mother."

The young woman gave him a mock once-over.

— "You will need to delegate. Not found your Iseult yet?"

Tristan and Isolde. Cultured woman.

— "Nay, dear lady. I thought I did, then I left Denmark for Vancouver and she didn't want to follow. It's hard when…"

Being a celebrity, he was starting to get all sorts of proposals. Being rather shy, he always wondered why young women pursued him in the first place. But Tristan didn't want to dwell on the subject. Frances seemed oblivious of who he was, and it sat right with him.

— "When?"

— "I'm bad at this game, and a little naïve. I have trouble knowing what women want of me."

There, it wasn't a bad way to put it and she only nodded.

— "Sadly, most people tend to forget to be genuine as they grow. It is good you retain some of it, for the sake of us all."

It was a refreshing point of view, one that was born of sadness and disappointment. Still, being a genuine man in this modern society was a difficult path.

— "It is one way to put it. But what about yours?"

— "This is where naïveté has fled I'm afraid. I've learnt the hard way that men are trouble."

Then her hand landed on his arm, spreading warmth. Her hazel eyes shone with emotion, conveying an apology for what she had just said.

— "Not all of them, mind you, but you never know until it is too late."

Her attention set on her son once more, but her gaze turned distant. Her fingers retracted, and he mourned the loss of her contact.

— "William?"

— "Yeah. I don't trust easily, now. Not anymore. I don't want Will to be hurt, especially after his father…"

— "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry"

'Much', finished his brain for him. Yes, he totally meant to pry.

— "He just ran away on a humanitarian mission when he found out I was pregnant. Not that I blame him, a man just has to look at me and bam, a child pops up. Family traits, or so said my mother. But it didn't sit well with Bryan's schedule. I guess it was just easier to follow with the plan and disappear in Africa than accept the responsibility."

— "It is … sad. For the little one, and for you. To be deprived of the support, or the father figure."

— "Yes, it was. But we make do. Being a parent is difficult, so I can understand that people might want to run away from it."

— "But women can't run away. You bear, your birth, you feed, you raise."

— "And we love unconditionally. But once you have your own children, you'll probably see things differently. Perhaps it is better this way. Who knows what might have happened if Bryan had stayed, put his career on hold, and resented Will for it."

Tristan passed his tongue over his lips, humbled by the truth of her words. Were fighting parents better than absent parents?

— "There is wisdom in your words"

' … for such a young age.' But this, he didn't say. He couldn't help but watch her young features. There were no laugh lines, like his, at the corner of her eyes. No wrinkles, only smooth, pale skin with a few freckles on her nose. Then her intense gaze trapped his, and try as he might, he couldn't look away as she laid down the mighty truth on the table.

— "I had the choice. His father advocated for an abortion. I refused…"

He fond gaze returned to the little boy who was humming the songs, very off-key. With his little high-pitched voice, it truly was adorable.

— "I am glad I did," she whispered. "William is a bright ray of sunshine in my life."

Tristan took in the sight of the child, sprawled belly first on a cushion as he sang haphazardly. Not two hours prior, his eyes had met the child's gaze, and drowned in its blue hues with delight. Yes, he saw what she meant. He had felt it.

— "I can only imagine. He brightened my day even before I met you. Just passing by him, with the spark in his eyes and his laughter was enough to put me in a good mood."

The young woman nodded, her body bent closer to him.

— "He has that strange power, to draw out the best in people. It doesn't prevent him from having the worst of characters, you know. When Will doesn't want, there's nothing you can do, or say to make him change his mind. As mulish as his mother"

— "Yes, I've taken the brunt of it as well."

This time, Frances laughed.

— "You've barely scratched the surface. But thank you nonetheless. What you did, it helped me a lot. And I needed it"

A genuine smile found its way upon his lips, and Frances could only stare, awed by the beauty of his features now that his restraint had crumbled down. So it was with a lighter chest that she received his next words.

— "You're very welcome. You quite made my day, the two of you."

And another piece of cake disappeared into his sensual mouth, causing Frances to break her stare with a blush.


	3. Vancouver part II

**_Hey, here is the second and last part of Vancouver. I hope you will enjoy this little piece of Frances and Tristan's encounter _****_ Next is a short chapter in the fifth century. Then we'll get to a Dire straits concert. Brace for impact hehe. If you enjoyed this piece, leave me a review so that I know if I should share, or keep this to myself. Cheers. Very soon, another chapter of 'The lone knight'._**

Three uneventful days had passed since Tristan had disappeared through her door, a piece of cake wrapped as a mediocre thanks. Frances would have loved to give him something more significant, but what could a mere woman get a rising actor? For she had done her research, and found that the man was no other than Tristan Christensen – son of Christen, as per Scandinavian customs – the latest fashionable Danish star. The internet was laden with pictures of him in different settings, different hairstyles and clothes, quite often with a woman perched on his arm. Lately, the people beside him on the red carpet well renown people. At least, this is what the internet said, for she was not very good at this game at recognising stars.

During her years in Interpol, she had sometimes gone out for a movie, or watched TV. But most of her free time was spent with William, and Frances was more familiar with kid's nursery rhymes than the happenings in star land. It left her giddy, though, to have met the man who stared right back at her on the net, and seen through the façade. For he was nothing short of shy, and it showed on the pictures; his smile strained, his gaze wary. Perhaps he wasn't used to the attention yet, and still appeared tense in official settings. But she doubted it would remain that way. Give him a few years, and the man would get comfortable with his co-stars. For she didn't doubt, he would rise much higher than expected. With his boyish charm and subtle facial expression, not to mention his sexy accent, the world would be crazy not to seek him out. It wouldn't help his predicament regarding women, though. The more famous, the less easy to find a genuine relationship.

Well. She hoped he would find someone who could see the gem of his heart behind the celebrity. For her part, those three days had gone painfully slow. Taking care of a toddler with a sprained ankle had been a pain. It was exhausting to run around, cook and take him out while limping. Fortunately, the swelling was slightly better, and she was at 50% of her usual speed now. Frances had never felt so lonely, and she had spent every single minute of this time wondering why. Until then, it had just been Will and her, she and William. In sickness and in health, she had cared for her son with the help of her family – bless them all for their unwavering presence. But now … now Frances longed for more. The ghost of companionship haunted her. Ever since that man had passed her door, she had realised how she missed bonding with someone different, someone her age – more or less – to exchange trivialities about the world. How she longed for the touch of another, for the support … dare she hope love? To be considered not only like a mother, but a woman as well? A human being with dreams and aspirations, likes and dislikes?

Tn days from now, she would pack her things and go back to France. To do what? Reintegrate Interpol? No. Now she knew that after what happened, she couldn't put William at risk again. He was the centre of her world, she couldn't afford to shift it. Suddenly, the idea to resume her old life felt wrong. As if, by getting back there, she could only try to wriggle in a mould that didn't fit her anymore. The wind of change was shuffling her hair, caressing her skin with promises of a new start. From the little balcony of her rental, Frances could see the beach. Many times she had considered returning, cursing her ankle that imprisoned her in the flat. Her eyes searched the familiar figure of a jogger, but never found him. Damn! How pathetic she was, clinging to the only man who had shown her kindness. Well, it wasn't quite true. Even as a single mother, some guys flirted with her sometimes, trying their luck. Most of them too young, most of them oblivious of William's well-being, intent on tasting a piece of her ass. She pushed them away with an icy smile. Not interested. So why had she let this man shatter her boundaries so easily? He was a celebrity for God's sake! He had other things to do that think about her and get into her messed up life.

Still…

When the buzz rang, Frances limped happily to the door. At last, the groceries she'd ordered were delivered. Since she wasn't in shape to go shopping, she had resorted to home delivery – feeling like a spoilt brat to spend money thus. She couldn't let William go hungry, and the chicken legs would be perfect with a raisin sauce. But she needed onions to do that, and the kitchen counter sorely missed their presence. Pulling the door open with a little too much force, Frances was stunned speechless when her eyes met a pair of very unsure molten gold.

Tristan's heart hammered painfully in his chest. For three days, his thoughts kept wandering to the single mother he'd met on the beach. Something in her just called to him. Her conversation, lively and gentle, had caused his heart to stir, his fears to settle. There is the small one room that she rented, he had felt more at ease than in any four-star hotel. Welcomed, accepted even, without the distance or misplaced awed he usually met. A feeling that lingered in his mind, brightening his days as he worked himself to the bone. There had not been a minute of spare time to breathe since then, yet his mind kept reeling. Until an idea popped in his tormented thoughts. The seed had grown, hour after hour, to become an outcome more possible than probable. Leading him here, on the threshold of her rental, with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Flowers? Too early. Especially if she said no. Dessert? Not when she cooked such delicious ones, it would be an insult. Dinner? What if she was busy? Kicked him out? And what if she didn't like what he picked? Had allergies to whatever he chose? What if she didn't want him to barrel into her life so rudely?

There was nothing like the unknown to unsettle him. Plenty of fellow actors loved surprises; Tristan didn't. He came from a modest, honest working family. Most surprises in his life usually brought problems and heartaches – an accident, a flat tyre – rather than an evening out on a yacht. In truth, he was rather unsure of the reason why he stood there, heart trying to leap out of his chest, ringing her doorbell. And when the door opened, and her doe eyes widened at the sight of him, his breath was stolen away. Gone was the dishevelled woman from the beach, casual clothes covered in sand. With her impossibly long reddish hair falling to her hips in ringlets, her ankle length skirt and hugging black t-shirt, she looked every inch a princess of old. Not a renaissance queen, no, but the type of woman you could imagine trailing the castle of Camelot. There was no adornment to distract his eyes, nothing to remind the stuffy ladies of the court. No jewels, no lace, no crystals and pearls. Nothing to distract him for her figure. The whole nobility feeling came from her silhouette and posture, and the incredible silky hair that followed her every curve. The high cheekbones and pale skin contrasted with the darker colours of her t-shirt and blue of her patterned skirt. And Tristan realised how breathtakingly beautiful he found her.

Until she addressed him a genuine smile. Then, there, the world stopped spinning and he had to remind himself to breathe.

— "Welcome back, Sir Tristan, son of Kristan."

A formal greeting strangely attuned to his thoughts; the princess had spoken to announce, subtly, that she had found out who he was. As she stepped back, the limp still pronounced in her gait, Tristan passed the door, poker face in place.

— "Hello, Lady Frances. I see you have done your research."

— "I have"

His eyes roamed her face, but she offered no more; she was obviously quite used to interrogation methods and he would have to pry.

— "And what have you found?"

— "I have found that the internet can never be as accurate as a chance meeting. Not one article writes about the gentleness of a man who helps you in time of need"

Relief flooded his chest at her words; Tristan had never been so happy to merely be a stranger. The sound of little feet hurrying across the wooden floor interrupted his musings, and very soon, Tristan found his legs encased in a set of chubby arms.

— "Whee!" came the heartfelt greeting that finished melting his insides.

Frances addressed him a beautiful smile.

— "Nor of his fondness for a stubborn little boy"

Tristan crouched to catch William's gaze, mesmerised once more by the huge blue eyes that studied him.

— "Hello William," echoed his smooth voice. "Have you taken good care of your mother?"

The boy didn't answer; he probably couldn't understand him since his mother only addressed him in French. But his arms wound around him, giving him a hug before he turned on his heels and ran back to the mountain of toys that littered the living room.

— "He has been a little easier than usual, as if he knew I couldn't keep up. But we've been trapped for a while, and that doesn't sit well with him. Nor with me, I admit."

— "I can understand. I have also spent three days trapped in a studio and was getting cranky."

Frances nodded at his words. He didn't mean to apologise for his absence; they had not agreed to meet again. But he hoped his meaning had been caught. And surely, for the young woman reached for his arm, dragging him to the bar stool.

— "Come and sit, Tristan. You look exhausted. I'm sorry I don't have beer, how about some tea?"

The actor pursed his lips as he sat. So she had read about his preferences as well; this put them on uneven feet since he knew next no nothing about her. The attention, though, was a welcome one and he dismissed the rest to the back of his mind to be sorted out later. He hoped she wouldn't feel self-conscious because of his status as a celebrity. Passing a weary hand through his long strands, he settled in the same spot he had claimed three days ago, allowing his posture to sag a little.

— "That would be great, thank you. Sometimes the rhythm is rather hectic. I'm glad for the break."

Frances' hand deftly poured the content of a packet into a tea ball, her elegant fingers dancing around the fastening.

— "It must be a demanding job," she mused.

Yes, it was, and he couldn't believe his luck to have climbed the ladder so easily. He had met the right people very soon in his career, so to speak. Exhausting, sometimes, physically and mentally, but he wouldn't quit for the world.

— "Demanding and rewarding. I was lucky to make it this far, and work hard to make up for it."

— "Talent and hard work make a great combination, Sir Tristan. But luck does not make a great actor, it just pushes him in the right direction,"

Spoken like a seer. A blush crept to his cheeks, and he wondered if she had watched some of his movies to form such an opinion. Though Frances didn't seem the type to flatter, he wondered if she wasn't trying to be nice. But when he met her hazel eyes, he knew that she meant every word of it. The praise shook him to the core, and he licked his lips nervously before a noisy 'tut tut' interrupted him. Willy had attached himself to his knee, a horrid musical car rolling on his thigh as the child asked, his is own way, if Tristan would come and play with him.

— "I am afraid, dear lady, that my attention is called elsewhere."

Frances's eyes widened, bordering on panic as her son tugged on Tristan's pants.

— "Oh, you don't have to. You didn't even have time to sip at your tea."

The actor wrapped himself in the knight persona as he answered solemnly.

— "Fear not. My sister's kids have not killed me yet. I doubt William can cripple me too badly."

Frances seemed to hesitate, and Tristan took the decision out of her hands as he plopped down on the living room carpet. Soon, a mountain of toys were being presented to him, and he started a chase of cars and animals across the sofa, William deciding which ones to pick. The little boy was babbling, a few French words slurred in the middle of it, and Frances wondered how Tristan could possibly understand what the boy told him. But the dynamic was there, the implacable truth that William needed more than a mother to be happy. And so she surrendered, watching out of the corner of her eye, how her attractive visitor had surrendered to Will's demands.

— "I'll cook some dinner, then. How do you feel about chicken?"

Tristan's eyes lingered on her for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the implicit invitation. It was so simple with her; no protocol, no hidden intentions, only the plain truth. She included him so naturally in the evening routine that he didn't feel like a third wheel, abating his previous fears. For that, he was grateful.

— "I would like that very much. Thank you for having me."

His voice sent shivers down her spine, and Frances slapped herself mentally. 'Get a grip,' she thought before answering formally.

— "It is I, who thank you for coming all the way here. It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Tristan."

The nickname called a dazzling smile to bloom upon his lips. There, the easy banter was on again. Forgotten the articles on the internet, or his status. There, sprawled on the ground with little Willy, he was once again the stranger from the beach.

Nary two hours later, William was softly snoring in his bed, the two adults gathered on the sofa as Frances cut the newest chocolate cake into small squares. The smell of it permeated the whole room, and Tristan had bristled as he did the dishes, impatient to dig in. Instead of being horrified upon to find his hand buried in the sink upon her return from Willy's room, Frances had simply thanked him profusely for cleaning up. It was incredible, how habits seemed to have popped up between the two of them. They worked like an efficient team; she, taking care of her son while he took care of the house. After all, her ankle was still on the mend. He couldn't possibly invite himself to dinner – which had been delicious – and not give her a hand afterwards.

Now that they were alone, Tristan's nervousness returned tenfold. How would she take his proposal? Would she reject it altogether? It was, after all, not an ideal deal. What right did he have to pry into her life? To offer things that might not suit her at all?

— "You know," he started. "I wanted to bring some food, but I couldn't bring himself to get cake since yours are just divine. And I didn't know if you loved sushi, or Thai, or Italian, or if you had any allergies … anyway…"

Then an epiphany hit him, and he wondered what kind of fool he was for forgetting this capital information. Smashing his forehead, swatting aside his long strands, he exclaimed:

— "Hell, Mexican, you must love Mexican food since your brother lives there, right?"

She had this semi smile at the corner of her rosy lips, a spark of amusement shining in her light brown eyes. With the dim light of the evening, they seemed almost golden. Not unlike his. A groan escaped his lips as he realised he was digging himself deeper and deeper.

— "Come one, fair lady, please put me out of my misery and say something."

This time, she laughed heartily, throwing her head back and revealing the smooth expense of her skin. For once, Tristan didn't curse his shyness; he was ready to make a fool of himself if it caused this carefree moment. But then, she lay her hand on his forearm, and plunged her deep gaze into his.

— "You are very cute when flustered. And your presence is the best of presents. I was happy to cook for you, Tristan."

Funny, how she was the only one around there who pronounced his name without an accent. After all, French and Danish had many sounds in common, and didn't roll the 'r'. Hearing that she considered his presence a present, though, caused his chest to suddenly expand. The perfect opening had just been laid out before him and he took one deep breath.

— "Since I couldn't settle on food, I brought you an offer. For a job in the studios. They need someone in the security team. It is not perfect, and I guess the pay is not so brilliant but … well. It might be an option, if you consider staying, that is…"

He knew he was babbling when nervous, so he just decided to shut up and watch her reaction. Her eyebrows had climbed so high that it created a full arch upon her forehead. To say that she wasn't expecting this was an understatement. Frozen, her fingers slightly twitched upon his arm.

— "I… I don't know what to say."

Emotions swirled on her face, but he couldn't make sense of it.

— "Then say nothing. Consider it, see if it fits your plans for the future. There's no pressure, really. I guess I just wanted to help."

A sly expression crossed her feature before she schooled them.

— "I will consider it," she said, her fingers sliding down to encase his own. "Thank you, really, it is very thoughtful of you."

The warmth of this little contact was enough to send tingles all the way up his arm. And when she let go, seizing a piece of chocolate cake instead, Tristan couldn't help but feel abandoned. The cake, though, consoled him deftly for it was as delicious as the first one. Different, but brilliant. He wondered idly if she would let him take another piece with him to accompany his long days in the studio. God knew the first one had been a comfort if rapidly engulfed.

Tristan left this evening without asking for her number once more, albeit he left his. Just in case. Like an implicit agreement; he'd made the first move, and would await for her to take a decision. The mind-numbing rhythm of 'should I stay or should I go' pounded in his head as he drove back to his own rental flat. He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he would very much like to see her again. Well. There was nothing more he could do.

Never had days seemed to drag for so long. Fortunately, Tristan had a fight to prepare, and it distracted him. Working out, rehearsing and shooting this mighty choreography monopolised his attention. He wasn't used to being tossed around – although he was a light-weight – but it proved more amusing than expected. Somehow, breaking things in its wake felt good, like a childhood dream come true. There, on set, he could unleash his whole fury, pour his guts into the fight. How nice, for his coiled muscles, to be used at their full potential. And God, how they cursed him in the evening! He ached all over. At the end of the fourth day, Tristan emerged from the set for a much-needed break. His hair was tousled, his shirt coated in fake blood and his muscles screamed in true agony. The make-up artists had skilfully added several scratches along his cheekbones that gave his haggard appearance a realistic look.

Tristan needed to cool off, and forwent his jacket to allow the breeze to brush his skin. This is where Frances found him, sipping a cup of coffee as if he didn't have a care in the world. He saw her before she did for she seemed to wander without a goal, taking in the intricate layout of the studios. Her hair was pulled tightly in a French braid, her lean silhouette enclosed in dark pants and a white blouse. Very professional … and so well proportioned; he couldn't help but admire the curve of her waist at it dipped to her wider hips. Damn, he needed to rein his thoughts, and let her know he was there before she disappeared around the corner.

— "Hey!" he called happily.

The young woman turned around and froze, frowning. Tristan was there … and he was hurt! Her heart rate increased, her eyes darting left and right to assess the surroundings. No threat around. Then she launched herself forward with a cry, the slight limp nearly sending her crashing into him.

— "By all Gods, Tristan, what happened to you?"

She was close, very close but didn't dare touching him, hands hovering, eyes searching for wounds. The panic in her eyes told him her training had kicked off. It wasn't the first time she found someone in such a poor state, and not on a TV set. How easily he had forgotten she used to work for the police! So he extended his hand, and soothingly said:

— "I'm fine, Frances. Don't worry, it's all part of the fight scene."

Her eyes widened dramatically as she huffed, a mask of professionalism falling back in place.

— "Of course, I'm so stupid!"

She seemed angry at her outburst; but his heart sung that she cared so much.

— "No, you aren't," came his silken voice.

Then the reality of her presence hit him, and hope blossomed in his chest.

— "Are you here for the offer?"

The woman gave him a sideways glance, her cheeks still flushed from the misunderstanding.

— "I was … assessing yes. Will is testing the studio's nursery this afternoon. If it goes fine for him, I might very well stick around for a while. Only to ensure you don't end up bruised and beaten, of course."

Then she pointed to the scratches littered on his cheeks.

— "Are those fake, then?"

— "Yes. Make-up"

Frances sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. He could almost read the relief on her face; she was so expressive.

— "Those artists are quite incredible, I admit. Very realistic"

Tristan sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. Trust her to find him on this day, where instead of wearing tailored suits he looked like he had rolled about on the ground. After all, they'd met on the beach, he drenched in sweat, so she probably wouldn't mind?

— "I hope it doesn't bother you," he said.

Instead of stepping back, the young woman arched her back to check him out, her eyes roaming over his frame from head to toe.

— "Well. The image might linger for a while, you are quite a sight, after all."

Tristan wondered for a moment what she meant by that, but then, her fingers traced idly the bloodied collar of his shirt, and her subtle smell invaded his senses. The cup of coffee was forgotten, discarded on a railing, and his hand naturally came to rest on her waist. He saw the tremor than ran through her body, heard her breath hitch for a dreadful moment, felt her muscles flex under the thin material of her silky blouse. As if preparing for battle. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes with an interrogative glance, a fearful gleam hidden beneath the warmth of her chocolate irises. This close up, he towered over her easily. Not that she was short, but he, on the other hand, was about 6 feet tall.

Her breaths fanned upon his neck where the collar of his shirt opened, so close that he could feel the heat of her body against his, the gentle curve of her waist beneath his tingling fingers. But she didn't move an inch, daring him to decide. A challenge, for he knew what a relationship with her entailed. The acceptance of her first and foremost priority; William. Frances was not the kind of woman to be played with nor trampled; she committed entirely, or not at all. And he marvelled that she had not slapped him already, or untangled her limbs from his for laying his hands upon her small frame. Her fingers, though, gently caressed his collarbone underneath the soiled shirt. Tristan closed his eyes, relishing in the softness of her touch. It made his body long for hers, his skin ache for her touch. When? How, why did this happen? He had not realised how much he wanted her until she landed in his arms, worry painted on her face at his haggard appearance. The testimony of her care for him.

Amber eyes opened, gaze determined, taking a deep plunge into her own.

— "I would like nothing more than kiss you right now," he coaxed, his silken voice causing a shiver to run down her spine.

Rosy lips curled slightly, her eyes twinkling with barely concealed delight.

— "Be my guest," she murmured, bestowing her blessing breathlessly.

He didn't hesitate. Tristan's mouth claimed her lips instantly, his heart thundering under the thin cotton of his shirt. Frances leaned into the kiss, meeting him slowly, sensually as their lips danced. And when his tongue brushed against her offered mouth, her soft curves pressed against him. Tristan's hand snaked around her waist to keep her close; an unconscious instinct to prevent his woman from running when his tongue claimed entrance with a sensual swipe. She welcomed him heartily, her own gently caressing his, weakening his knees like a teenager. God, she was sensual! Her whole body now searched his contact, her hand massaging his neck, fingers curling at his nape. Tristan couldn't help the moan that escaped him as his lips made love to hers. She tasted heavenly, better than her chocolate cakes, better than the cup of coffee he had indulged in after such an exhausting day, better than anything he'd ever claimed before. She tasted of victory, of gentleness and promises.

And what victory! What promises! She kept them all.

A year later, Kristan swore there was nothing sexier than Frances' swollen belly as she cared and nurtured for their child; the one he had planted inside of her in a fit of passionate love. 'I told you so,' she had said as she watched the little blue lines, worried that once more, a child had invited itself in her womb. 'I am not going anywhere,' Tristan had answered, happy beyond measure. There was something wild and magical about her being pregnant; her long tresses falling over the silky expense of her rounded stomach, the child rearing to greet his father whenever he approached his hand.

Six months were all it took for him to change his mind, for he swore, again, that she was even sexier when she gave his daughter her breast to suckle. The Madonna, gentle smile on her face, hands caressing the baby as her fiery hair tumbled around them in a cocoon. She'd never seen the awe in his own golden orbs as he witnessed the sacred duty of a mother to her daughter.

And each time Willy tried to make his baby sister laugh, his heart melted all over again. How proud he was, to have adopted this son as his own! For the child was so easy to love, and secretly, he thanked Frances' ex for leaving when he could have claimed Willy. He truly was an extraordinary brother. And Tristan was proud to call them his children, both of them, and proud that his wife hit the red carpet beside him once in a while. The same pride reflected in her eyes when he was rewarded for his work; the trust in his talent she always sported humbled him.

And no matter how many years passed, no matter how famous he became, they were always there to support and care for him. To ground him when his mind was all over the place, to restore him to health when he was exhausted, to love him when his self-esteem dropped. And Tristan realised that there always were moments in his life where his heart stopped, and he swore that he had never seen anything more beautiful and heart-warming. Yet his family would find another way to bring him to tears. Tears of joy, to be the recipient of their love.


	4. Vancouver part III

**_Thanks to PatiPadilla2 and BeesAndOtherAngels for the inspiration. I'm sorry that I prefer commenting rather than voting on your stories (I tend to forget because I read mostly on fanfiction and there's no voting there) but your stories inspired this one so … thanks!_**

At last! A little break to get his bearings and enjoy a much needed coffee. Lack of sleep, as of late, had become a common occurrence. One of the main reasons being that Frances' place was further away from the studios than his, and that whenever he slept over, they tended to linger at night. Little Will went to bed around 8 PM, and struggled in every possible way to keep popping up in the living room whenever he was around – the toddler has taken a shine to this recurring visitor. Despite his cuteness, it meant that their evening together started at nine and then … then, they had so much to share, two lives to discover, and many more activities better left unsaid. Yet… Tristan had never had such beautiful sex with anyone. She was a dream in bed, tender and soft, sensual and needy, welcoming and strong. Feeling the twitch his memories caused in his three-piece costume, Tristan straightened on the bench and gulped a mouthful of coffee. Damn, this woman was too distracting! And her hair … when it spilled upon her bare flesh. Beautiful.

He longed to have Frances in his bed, longed to hear her horse voice cry out his name in bliss. Repeatedly. Tristan was a man fit enough to match her incredible stamina and romantic enough to bring satisfaction to a woman whose heart was heavily guarded. She was a treasure in his hands, a flower which petals opened ever so slowly. He always battled to have her at home; there even was a guest room with a bed for Will, and toys, and many children appliances he'd found himself buying over the last few weeks. She came, sometimes, during the day to familiarise with his place. But at night, Will's stability always won over – a pretext, now that the toddler knew his flat well enough to open the cupboards by himself. Already, the first set of drawers were packed with toys rather than his usual discs and movies. A smart choice to preserve them.

Tristan didn't push … much. Yet.

Today was one of those days when his schedule had shifted, and they were unable to meet for lunch. Too bad; even exhausted, Frances always found a way to make him laugh and ease his worries. A soothing presence in his life. She understood and never put pressure regarding his erratic work patterns. Interpol had not been kind to her in the past. The set of new lovers met whenever they could, sometimes just catching up between two doors for the pleasure of sharing a kiss, a hug, or even a smile. Tristan longed for more, but for the moment, he was rather content with is lot. Frances was, to him, an extraordinary woman. Beautiful, with a quick wit and a dark sense of humour only Europeans could share. The fact that he found her utterly beautiful, like a princess of fairy tales, or that she could bring him to heaven with her touch, or her cakes was a plus. So he wasn't about to throw everything down the drain by pushing her too far, too fast. After all, they had all the time in the world, right ?

Gulping another mouthful of coffee – a bad one, but hey, beggars can't be choosers – Tristan closed his eyes for a moment. The warmth of sunrays on his face felt like a caress, its light bright even behind closed eyelids. His perfectly slicked back hair felt so rigid upon his head; his character in the show was such a control freak ! Three-piece suit and all. Frances always remarked how different the man was from him, but still, the twinkle in her chocolate eyes told him she found him very handsome regardless. Damn. Less than one minute of meditation, and his thoughts were circling back to her already. Was it infatuation, or l …?

The sound of a feminine voice calling his name caused his head to snap aside. Tristan's eyes opened, expecting to find an assistant calling him back on set. Instead, amongst the little crowd always running to and fro in the mess of a TV series, his gaze found the very object of his daydreams. His mouth curled in a smile; it was a nice surprise to see her today now he'd missed lunch. Her fiery hair, tightly braided, shone so brightly with the sun. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she had run all the way to find him, and it enhanced her skin so beautifully that he couldn't help but stare. Damn, what a woman ! From the looks she received whenever she swung by, he knew a few fellow workers agreed with him. Learning that said fiery woman only showed up to kiss him senseless had caused a little disgruntlement.

Her approach, today, seemed a little rigid. Tristan's smile fell. Something was wrong. Her shoulders were tense, her steps much less assured than usual, her eyes… Her eyes didn't smile when he stood in the three-piece suit, pristine shirt and neatly pressed waistcoat. Tristan's long strides closed the distance and he caught her hand at once, his other arm circling her waist to claim a kiss. Frances recoiled then, arching her neck so that his lips landed on her cheek instead. Tristan frowned, wounded by her rejection and she lifted her hands in defence.

— 'Please. Sorry…'

Her hesitation caused his chest to constrict painfully, and the glint of guilt in her eyes did nothing to reassure him. Straightening, Tristan let go of her waist, awaiting the blow that was sure to come. Was it over yet? After just a few short weeks? Had she decided to go back home?

Seeing his poker face in place, Frances seemed to panic and reached for both of his hands, her warm fingers encasing his in a tight grip. Curious, she usually had colder extremities.

— 'No … no, no, no. Don't. Ugh! I'm sorry. I need a second to get my thoughts in order, please.'

Tristan nodded, the lump on his throat uncomfortable. But then, she circled his firm waist and crushed herself against his chest. Her warmth seeped through the waistcoat, her heart beating so wildly that he felt it. Tristan encased her in a strong hug, relishing in the way her presence made him feel. So alive, so thrilled. Complete.

— 'I need a favour," she eventually muffled against his shirt.

— 'Anything," was his quick reply.

Frances started, retreating a bit to watch his face. Anything. And he meant it. Her eyes seemed to tear up, or had they always been this watery? Tristan awaited nervously when she exhaled shakily.

— 'In an hour or so, I'll be 40-degree fever, more or less. Can you pick up Will up so I can get to a doc once I finish my shift?'

Startled, Tristan swallowed thickly before he could understand what she meant.

— 'What?'

— 'Angina, I'm contagious right now.'

— 'Oh…' Tristan passed a hand over his tired features. 'Oh!'

And he knew he shouldn't have, but the actor couldn't help but feel relieved. For he understood, now, why she had refused to kiss him. Worry replaced relief in a heartbeat. Flushed cheeks, warm hands and teary eyes. She was already running a fever!

— 'Frances…'

The young woman shook her head vehemently, wincing as her head pounded with the movement.

— 'I've had three of them already, they keep coming back. 7 weeks apart each time. Don't understand it much, but it will be all right with antibiotics. Give or take 5 days.'

Tristan's hand settled upon her forehead; she was already too warm to the touch. Worried, the actor shook his head.

— 'You can't work like this.'

Frances reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his in an intimate grasp. It was a simple gesture, but enough to distract him for a second as his skin hummed in satisfaction. She took advantage of his silence to try and soothe him.

— 'I'm not contagious if I keep to myself, only to the ones I kiss.'

Faint eyebrows rose to the sky, and Tristan exploded.

— 'Goddmanit woman! I'm worried about you, not for the rest of the world. You can't possibly drive on your own!'

Unfazed by his outburst, Frances levelled him with her best 'mother' look.

— 'Sure I can.'

— 'But…'

— 'Don't worry, I take care of myself. Always have, always will'

The rest of the sentence was almost bitter, but this time, Tristan was ready. He didn't give her more time to try and bamboozle him. Diving into her eyes, he pinned her with the intensity of his gaze.

— 'I know you can. I don't care!'

Frances lifted an eyebrow; a challenge for him to go ahead. After all, she'd survived those bouts of illness before that, and was confident about her abilities. When no other remark was forthcoming, she tried to coax him into her plan.

— 'Listen. I'd be eternally grateful if you can pick the little one up the time I get those antibiotics.'

Tristan huffed; her stubbornness held no bonds. When would she eventually accept that he could help on a daily basis? Take the burden off her shoulders. Be a companion? After all, this is how they had met in the first place. His devious mind came up with a solution that would, for sure, make her scream bloody murder.

— 'I'll pick up William if you promise me not to leave the premises on your own.'

Stunned, Frances gaped, her cheeks even more flushed.

— 'This is blackmail," she ground.

She had never made such a noise; the growl of a she-wolf protecting her cubs. Tristan steeled his spine for the outburst that would probably come his direction to sever his head from his body.

— 'Yes," he deadpanned. 'This is the deal.'

Surprisingly, his head remained upon his broad shoulders. She just watched him as if he'd grown a second head. Wondering, probably, when he'd become so confrontational. Or assessing his motives; who knew when a former Interpol agent analysed your body language from head to toe. At last, she huffed, sending her arms into the air.

— 'Fine!'

Tristan nodded, teeth grinding against each other.

— 'Sit there, and wait for me," he said sternly.

— 'I'm getting back to work…'

His hand stopped her, firm and unrelenting. Frances laid hers above his own, a warning as her fingers got ready to get rid of his grip.

— 'No, you don't.'

She glared at him, her brownish eyes nearly golden such was the fire within. How dare he, take decisions for her when she needed him to abide by her plan! How did he think she'd survived, those past years on her own? Tristan's face softened then, his jaw unclenching as he cradled her cheek.

— 'Please," he said, his voice low. 'Let me take care of you. You don't have to be alone anymore, Frances.'

His words hit her like a brick wall, and before she knew it, her mind shut down. As if the strain had become too great for a single person. Frozen, she surrendered as Tristan pulled her to his side, leading her to the bench he'd been enjoying his well-earned coffee before she had barreled into his life. Once more asking for help. Once more putting pressure on his shoulders. Pressure that didn't belong to him.

— 'Tristan you can't, you must be on set this afternoon.'

His face gave nothing away, but inside, Tristan felt as giddy as he was worried. She remembered his schedule! Of course, she did, that woman forgot nothing – professional quirk, probably. It still felt good, in his heart, to know she was aware of his whereabouts. And unfortunately, she was also right. The shooting would go on at least until 8 this evening, but he could pick little Will up and keep him on set without issues.

— 'Sit. I'll find a way. Give me half an hour'

And when her knight in shining armour disappeared into the studio, Frances couldn't help but cross her arms on the table and lay her head down. She wasn't looking forward to what came next. Fever, aches, pain, difficult nights and no solid food for days. At least, this time, she wouldn't be alone with her pain. Could she burden him with a sick woman and her child? Damn, it wasn't the fairy tale she'd been hoping for. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Frances realised that Tristan was more than up to the task. And curiously willing. A great man.

**_So, of course, you might have made the link with Hannibal. And this young man would be Hugh Dancy. It's all messed up because Tristan is 30 something and well, you know, they shoot it in Toronto. But I think it still works rather well._**

He was sweet, this fellow actor of her… lover ? boyfriend ? Man ? Man. Anyway. He was sweet. Real nice, and chirpy. A mop of brown curls, clear eyes like a summer sky, and chatty. Frances tried no to sound too glum, despite the fact that she knew what was coming. Already, her body was shaking from the increasing fever, the muscles of her back clenching painfully as Hugh – that was his name – tried to amiably chat, visibly worried. Hell, she was worried as well. Seven weeks ago, she'd had her parents to crash at when the stupid illness stroke her down. Taking care of oneself with a 40+ fever was something, but handling a toddler… well, that was another story. And the pain, Gods ! Last time, her throat was so sore that there wasn't any space left between tonsils to eat anything. The only solution left had been suckling icicles.

And how would Will handle being picked up by Tristan rather than herself ? How would he cope if the shooting wasn't finished ? Frances wrung her hands together, her teeth chattering. Damn, this one was going to be as fun at the three last ones. Every 7 weeks, how long was this mess going to last ? She couldn't afford to be sick every second month !

— "Relax. We're almost there, they'll find out how to help you"

Sweet. But clueless when it came to women, and children.

— "I know. Antibiotics, corticoid, and time. I'm not worried about that to be honest"

— "Is that about your son ?"

A shudder ran through Frances's spine. Anxiety at its best.

— "Yeah. William is not used to being taken care of by another than me"

— "Oh, I've seen Tristan with kids. He's great, he'll probably show him around. The boom operator is going to melt, and the director's assistant as well. He'll be so busy meeting people and touching strange things he'll never realize you were missing."

Frances nodded, startled to see how picturesque a scene Hugh was painting. So… not so clueless when it came to mothers. She was glad Tristan had such a friend on set. His co-star, from what he said. Said co-star was back to grilling her on their relationship, and despite the fever, she could only smile at his good natured questions. Definitely a friend, then, despite the fact that Tristan seemed to be rather closed off when it came to unveil his life. He was a private man…

— "You don't seem to know much about us, you know", she stated playfully.

Hugh gave her a sly look, his clear eyes squinting.

— "Tristan doesn't say much; he's wary of the press ; I doubt he wants you all over the juicy gossip news"

— "Oh…"

Oh indeed. How had she overlooked such a logical, obvious information ? If they were seen together, given his status as a rising actor, paparazzis would have a field day with her. Speculating. Putting Will in the spotlight. Ugh ! Fortunately, the press was relatively discreet in Canada, and even more in Europe. On the continent, private life was private life. In France, no one cared who the president was sleeping with as long as he played his part. In the States… it was another story. Public people had no secrets, every little detail was good enough to be published.

Hugh's voice interrupted her musings as he pulled over an expensive looking clinic.

— "There, we're here"

A wave of panic surged through Frances.

— "Listen, I don't think my insurance covers for that. I'm not a full-time contract and so…"

Looking for a place to park, Hugh shrugged.

— "Don't worry about it"

The young woman quite lost it at this moment, throwing her hands up like an Italian.

— "I worry about it ! Of course I worry about it."

Unfazed, her driver started a manoeuvre, passing his arm over the seat to check behind him.

— "Tristan said he'd cover for the cost", came his muffled voice.

— "Like hell he will ! I'm my own woman !"

— "You're Tristan's woman now"

Mouth agape, Frances found herself stunned for the second time that day. Is that how he called her, his woman ? Possessive much ? Or achaic ? Macho, or sweet ? She couldn't even decide, and right now, didn't have time to fight anyone anymore. Shoulders slumping in defeat, she mumbled :

— "I'm going to kill him"

Hugh pulled the parking break and gave her a stern look.

— "You can't ! I'm supposed to kill him, it's in the script."

Then he winked at her playfully before putting the boot in.

— "There. Now this is settled…"

— "Whatever …"

— "Want me to explain to him why I left you on the sidewalk ?"

Of course, Tristan would be furious. What a very petty way to bend her will, ah ! Pissed, Frances just slumped on her seat. She was fucking freezing and the pain was growing stronger in her throat, making speaking and swallowing difficult.

— "Ugh !"

— "No it's Hugh. And you're welcome"

The beauty of private clinic was that Hugh brought her back on set less than two hours later, drugged to the core. Codeine was effective, but messed with her brain. But at least, she had antibiotics and cortisone stashed in her handbag. Everything to be happy, right ? And since she had such an illustrious guide, Frances was able to penetrate deep in the studios when her job as security didn't give her this privilege. Stages and decors sprang to life before her very eyes and the young woman, still high from the codeine, decided she would watch every single episode of this show. Just for the pleasure of seeing her man – yer, since she was his woman – in them. Expect if he kissed a woman, ugh !

Hugh might have mentioned something about it, but she truly couldn't remember much. Her head was kinda floating, at the moment, and her thoughts occupied by her little one. Even her sweaty clothes – the fever was going down – didn't bother her so much. The smell, though…

— "Maman !"

The pitter patter of little feet echoed in the backstage, and she was suddenly assaulted by her son who started blabbering, in French, about a thousand things she couldn't make heads or tails of. Relieved beyond measure, Frances didn't fail at spotting the tall, lean man that appeared right behind. Still dressed to the nines, he came to her with purposeful strides and circled her waist. Her whole body hummed at his touch, struggling to keep upright when his arms felt so inviting; how she longed to melt against him ! Fortunately, William grounded her, forcing her to stand still. Tristan kissed her temple, sending a grateful nod to Hugh.

— "Thanks a lot, mate"

— "You're welcome. I'll head home now, take care of her"

— "You know I will"

And even though Will still chatted her ear off, Frances turned to Tristan's friend to convey her gratitude. He'd been a weird, witty companion, but agreeable nonetheless.

— "Thank you, really"

— "Think nothing of it. Rest well, and once you're recovered, I want some chocolate cake"

— "Gotcha", she answered with a tired smile.

And the man disappeared in the shadows of the huge building. Now that the sun had dipped under the horizon, many parts of the set were deserted.

— "So ?"

Blinking, Frances turned from Hugh's retreating silhouette to Tristan.

— "Uh ?"

— "What did the doctor say ?"

— "I… uh. He suspects CMV, had me take a blood test"

The young man pushed his head backwards in a funny imitation of an ostrich.

— "And now it's my turn to say uh ?"

His antics earned him a muffled laugh.

— "Sorry. _Cytomegalovirus as in mononucleosis._ Which makes sense since I've been tired recently. And it would certainly explain the recurring angina"

Tristan frowned, instantly worried. Medicine was not his cup of tea.

— "So what should you do ?"

Frances sighed, almost resigned.

— "Nothing, and refrain from sports to prevent my spleen from exploding"

— "What ?!"

Will started with a whine; he'd been nestled against his mother's neck for a moment, taking in her scent and nuzzling her skin. Frances shifted his weight – the strain was getting to her sore muscles – and rubbed his back to soothe him, sending a chastising look to Tristan.

— "Chill, Tristan. Not going to happen."

The actor, though, still didn't look convinced. The line of worry between his eyes seemed determined to settle, and Frances regretted that her hands were occupied, preventing her from massing it away. Tristan was so sweet when worried.

— "But the day we met, you were running after Will. What if the damage is done already ?"

— "This is nothing like intensive sport. You must stop worrying, Tristan. I will be fine."

The spark of anger barely showed in his eyes before it ignited. Fortunately, the presence of Will caused him to growl rather than yell.

— "You have such disregard for you own health ! I can't believe it."

His fit of temper was enough to rise hers, and Frances propped her chin forward and sent him an icy glare.

— "Listen to me, Tristan. As a single mom, I know exactly how far I can go before I snap. It is my duty, because there is no safety net for me. If I fall…"

Tristan seemed to consider her words for a moment, and she realized that his Danish flegm was one of the reasons she loved him. Yes, he could get angry, and mad. Yes, he had quite a temper when triggered. But he always heard, and considered things before lashing out. Hence, when his hand came to rest upon her collarbone, she couldn't help but shiver at the touch.

— "I am here, you know. You are not alone anymore"

And his low, sugar coated voice only emphasized how good it felt to have him by her side.

— "I know. But even then, there is plenty of margin here. Sure, it will be a rough ride for a while, but I'll be fine."

— "How can you know that?"

And the question was genuine, his dark orbs awaiting her verdict.

— "I always am in the end. I gave birth without an epidural. After this… I think I can endure quite some stuff."

The small smile that quirked his lips was enough to send a wave of warmth through her chest, and his arm squeezed her shoulder.

— "It would be more believable if you were not swaying on your feet"

— "I am not…"

— "Come. Give Will back to me, he's made a few friends and has melted many hearts. Just as predicted"

Frances pouted as the toddler instantly threw his arms up to him and settled on his hip as if he belonged there. Then, a mischievous smile quirked her lips up. There was such a contrast between Tristan's upper class costume and the toddler pulling at the tie; the picture carved itself into her mind. They certainly looked heart melting right now, the two of them.

At last, he'd managed to take her home. To his home! It had been quite a negotiation and Tristan had the advantage of a clear mind, a will set, and plenty of arguments – his oven was great, his kitchen too. And so was the gigantic bathtub. Of course, she couldn't possibly work in her condition, and take care of a toddler. His proposal to drop Will off at day care and pick him up in the evening had eventually won the game. Just for a few days – Frances conceded – until the fever went down. Satisfied Tristan had installed Will's seat into his car and picked an entire suitcase of things from her place. Toys, clothes, bodies, cottons, diapers, dinner, milk, bottles, night light, cuddly toy… Who knew such a tiny person could need so much material! By the time he'd finished packing, he could see Frances was starting to suffer from another bout of fever.

Seeing the strain upon her face wounded his heart more than he could say, and the shivers that wracked her were too intense to ignore. But asking, for the umpteenth time, if he could help was bound to piss her off. Hence Tristan remained silent, driving them both to his place, and signalling for Frances to crash on the couch while she guided him through little Will's routine.

And so, for the first time, Tristan proceeded to bathe, feed, change and dress an excited two years old. Needless to say, that Will wasn't too cooperative. The anxiety of sleeping in another's house, coupled with the worry oozing from both adults had William constantly running to his mother. As once more, the little lad had taken advantage of him searching for a suitable blanket, Tristan ran to the living room with his prize. The scene that greeted him stranded him at the doorway, sending through him a strange wave of longing. She was so beautiful. Despite the lines of pain on her face, Frances' lips smiled, cradling the overexcited toddler to her chest, her fiery waves falling upon them both. Humming a song – a French one, he'd heard before – while she embraced the little boy. Her arms grounded little Will, his wide blue eyes darting back and forth as he tried to squirm away. But Frances wouldn't let go, carrying on the tune until he was settled enough to hear her. Then she sat him on her lap, and watched him intently.

— 'You must be good to Tristan. He will show you this great bed, and you got your rabbit with you. And I will be right next door, all right?'

Will shook his head intently, babbling somewhere that contained 'mama' inside. He wasn't sure how much he picked up, but ever since he started daycare, the little boy understood more and more English. And his mother always made a point of speaking a language Tristan could understand in his presence.

— 'Maman is sick, little one. It is nothing to worry about, but I must rest. Do you want to ask Tristan to stay by your side while your pilot light plays the songs?'

The toddler wasn't so convinced. Well, like Mother, like Son. He'd never met someone as stubborn as she was. Once more, Tristan couldn't help but wonder how much Will had inherited from his absent father. Would the man ever surface one day, and try to win Frances over? Tristan's fist tightened around the fluffy blanket. 'Over my dead body,' he thought. She was his now. His to love and care for. And since William still vehemently shook his head, the tall man walked to mother and son and knelt beside them.

— 'Hey, Will. We must let your mum rest now. Come, I'll tell you a story, and hold your hand in bed. How is that?'

— 'No. Want mama'

Tristan's tongue darted over his lower lip as he thought of a trick that might unglue William from his safe haven – mama. Setting a large hand over the toddler's back, he let the warmth of his touch settle.

— 'Mama is very, very tired, little one," he added, giving Frances a meaningful look. 'See, her eyelids are dropping now. Time for bed'

The young woman couldn't help the incredulous smile that crept on her face. She played the game, closing her eyes. Comfortably settled in the sofa, she even released a little snore that nearly sent him into peals of laughter. What an actress! Will frowned, his blue eyes squinting as he contemplated the face of his 'sleeping' Mother. To her credit, she didn't move an inch, mimicking the heavy breaths to perfection. The little boy relented then, and let him scoop him into his arms. Tristan cradled the toddler in a protective embrace to appease his fears. He understood, now what Frances meant about changing environments. Stability, to a two-year-old, was essential. Especially in a country where the language was different from his mother's, and his grandparents were absent.

It took three quarters of an hour for Will to eventually close his eyes. By then, Tristan was quite sure his spine was broken in three pieces such was the impossible position he'd had to maintain to keep the boy's hand. Tomorrow, the travel cot would be burnt to the ground and a baby bed built in its place. Ugh!

Making his vertebrae crack, Tristan sneaked back to the living room only to find Frances sleeping. Or not. The moment he set a foot inside, she cracked an eye open. Would she ever lower her guard?

— 'Sleeping?' she mouthed.

Tristan scratched his nape, his shoulders sagging in relief. For a moment, his ears searched for any sound that might indicate William had awakened, but everything seemed silent now.

— 'Yeah.'

Frances pursed her lips in an approving pout.

— 'Well done, you're impressive.'

Tristan couldn't prevent his eyebrows from climbing to his hair line. 45 minutes, and she found it impressive? What the hell? As she patted the space next to her, Frances gave him a lopsided smile.

— 'New house, new room, and no mum. It could have taken hours and a lot of tears.'

Tristan settled then, pulling Frances to his side. She was warm, but not burning up; perhaps her medication had finally decided to take effect. Still, he felt like an idiot to be proud of himself for such a little accomplishment of putting a child to bed ONCE.

— 'I had to come back three times; the moment I stood up, he started wailing.'

— 'Yeah, I heard him. Will is sneaky. He knows the movement will wake him up so he clutches his fingers tightly. You have to wait until deeper sleep.'

— 'I figured. After the third attempt.'

Frances chuckled, burying her nose in the crook of his neck. She loved his scent, and enjoyed the feel of his bare skin just as much as the sharp line of his jaw – her words, not his. Tristan let the quietness of the moment settle, deflating in the sofa so that they were nearly lying down. This evening, he would definitely order take out. Spending an evening caring for a toddler, he realised how demanding it was in terms of energy. How Frances managed to cook, work, and take care of her house, in the meantime, was a mystery. And fortunately, Will slept at night. He couldn't imagine how difficult life could be with chopped nights. A newfound respect for parents bloomed in his chest.

— 'I understand what you mean about responsibilities now.'

Her smile only grew and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. Her hands gently caressed his upper chest, the contact seeping through the simple t-shirt he word. Tristan grabbed her little fingers, watching her expression. Despite the pain that still lingered in her chocolate eyes, he thought he could detect a hint of fondness.

— 'You'll be a great father someday, you know.'

The young woman kissed his neck, and just like that – after dropping this bombshell on him – she settled against his chest and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep, safely ensconced in his arms. Tristan mulled a long time over the fact that maybe, in the future, a family awaited him. And he knew that he could see no other mother for his children than the woman that had eventually accepted his suit, and let him in. Frances already was a great mother and she trusted him, now. He would endeavour to prove her right.

Needless to say, that Frances never returned to her rental flat.


	5. Chapter 3 - Woads !

**_This one is very short, but I liked it nonetheless. It shows up a stubborn couple _****_ Different dynamics, but love nonetheless._**

**_I had no feedbacks on how the Vancouver shot story finished. Still hoping to have some !_**

The heavy thud of his boots echoed on the tainted ground, the dirty road turned into a crimson river that flowed freely across their horse's hooves. Mouth set in an angry line, amber eyes barely holding the storm at bay, his Dao still drawn. Gore and blood decorated his armour, shaggy braids sticking haphazardly upon his skull, his expression that of thunder. Tristan would have sent anyone cower away such was the intensity of his rage.

But not her. For her fiery hair was also tainted with remains of the battle, her own sword bloodstained, her gaze unforbidding. A wrathful fairy whose destruction could be witnessed at her feet, remains of blue-painted bodies mingled in a pool of blood. She met his gaze squarely, unimpressed by his simmering anger, ready to receive his ire head-on when even his brothers, even his commander, the great Artorius Castus did not stand in his way. There was no reasoning Tristan whenever wrath took hold of him… An occurrence as scarce as it was terrifying.

At last, the tall knight stomped in front of her, and she had to lift her eyes to meet his furious gaze.

— "What are doing here, wife?" he growled angrily.

— "The same as you, husband," she responded, unfazed.

An angry snarl escaped him, lips curling over sharp canines like a wolf about to attack. The fire in his amber eyes should have frozen her in place; should have consumed anyone to ashes. But the crazy woman only grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket, eyes firmly planted into his. A fight for dominance. Tristan should have recoiled, and severed that arm that dared intruding upon his personal space. He should have pounced, freeing the beast to lay destruction over the smaller woman. Albeit he towered over her, his large frame dwarfing hers, the young woman held her ground. Then she pulled him down to her and planted a searing kiss upon his lips. The tall scout grabbed her hair, his tongue claiming entrance, ravaging the inside of her mouth as he firmly held a fistful of her fiery – and dishevelled – strands.

Then he released her, sending her a scathing look that should have stopped her heart altogether. It spoke of a long-needed discussion, of retribution. As soon as they reached his room, hell would break loose. Would he beat her senseless for her recklessness, or give her the scolding of her life? Galahad wondered, for he had never seen a bruise on her skin inflicted by the scout. It was little wonder; should they fight, Tristan might emerge as battered as she would. Battling a wild cat would have been wiser, yet his brother was quick-tempered. Somehow, he wondered why it had never occurred; he couldn't fathom the depth of the scout's affection for his woman, for he thought Tristan incapable of loving. Lancelot's teasing about their wild, passionate sex came to his mind. Mayhap the dark knight wasn't so wrong after all.

Galahad almost scoffed when Frances grinned at the scout's retreating back, swiping her blade clean in synch with Tristan, using the exact same move even if he was now more than a hundred feet away from her. As if a thread linked them, no matter how far apart they were. The younger knight couldn't make sense of it, this bind of the soul that pulled them together, nor did he care much. Frances was his friend, and Tristan's wife in every way except for the Catholic Church. She belonged to him, and he to her. It was common knowledge at the fort; no one dared even looking at her with insistence after Tristan had broken a Roman's nose. None within their brotherhood would ever question it; it would be like struggling against the rise of the sun in the morning, or the coming of winter every year.

So it didn't surprise him that the Bishop, an old fox disguised as the captain of the guard, raised his thick eyebrows to Arthur himself.

— "Have you authorised one of your knights to marry?"

The tone should have been cordial, except for the underlying threat contained within. Arthur's green eyes lingered on Tristan's tense form, but the scout made no move to acknowledge the question. Galahad watched his commander's features relax in relief. The subject of Tristan's wife was one of the most explosive ones; the fact that he didn't react – outwardly at least – left all leisure for Arthur to handle it. A mark of trust that didn't pass unnoticed. Galahad saluted the effort; Tristan didn't want to compromise their freedom. Yet, the whitening knuckles on the saddle straps taught him the scout was close to imploding.

Arthur sent a fond look to the young woman, and Frances bowed before mounting her own horse. She, also, left it up to him. Their commander then turned to the Bishop, frowning when he saw the appreciative gaze he sported towards Frances. Dangerous.

— "No. They are not married as per our church or customs. I do not question my knight's private life as long at they fulfil their duty."

— "Yet you authorise her presence on the battlefield?"

Arthur paused, looking for the best plausible explanation why Frances kept popping up whenever a fight was brewing. For years now, he had got used to her presence. No matter how strongly he pushed her away, she always returned. And none of his knights would ever lay a finger upon her anyway. Tristan had tried fiercely, leaving her tied to a tree one day. She had not spoken to him for a month afterwards, making his life, and the company's miserable. The promise of a fair retribution should they act upon such feelings again. If the scout couldn't rein his woman, it was a lost cause. So Arthur had given up, and let her wander at will. She had saved many with her swordsmanship, included him. The young woman brought her grey mare closer to address the Bishop a playful glare. Her reddish hair shone in the morning light, helmet discarded on the saddle, but sword close at hand.

— "I was merely passing by. I am sure no one minds if I accompany the knights back to the wall where I also dwell."

— "No, I sure no one will, fair lady," responded the Bishop in a mocking tone.

His eyes, though, held promises that made Galahad cringe. If Tristan caught that look, the man was as good as dead.

Galahad rode beside his brothers in arms, chatting with the redhead beside him. The younger knight enjoyed greatly Tristan's wife company – she was always merry – although he thought her to be a very crazy woman. No one sane enough would have married the scout, no one in its right mind. She was not bulky, a mere slip of a woman, barely tall enough to reach Tristan's chin. Long reddish hair tied into a braid, great hazel eyes, a skin of alabaster and freckles upon her nose. Poise, and education, grace and diplomacy, sometimes tinted with strength and obstination. The perfect definition of a noble woman. But what she lacked in stature, she compensated in fierceness. What Frances wanted, Frances got. Never before had the knights of the round table seen Tristan bow to anyone, except her. For his wife was the only one he ever accepted defeat from, and he did so without dishonor.

Who else to put up with the scout's dark manners and blood lust? Whom else to willingly attach herself to Tristan, and fight beside him with such skill? To care for him in his fits of anger, and face his wrath without a flinch? Who else than her, truly, to meet his curtness head-on and spar their disagreements away? For there was respect between them, a deep admiration that found its roots in many joint battles in the past. And no matter how angry Tristan would become, no matter how deadly he might be, he loved his wife more than the world. She was his strength and only weakness, just as he was hers. No bond was stronger than theirs, no danger could keep them apart. Where Tristan was, so was Frances. Five steps ahead, of five steps behind. Where Frances went, Tristan followed.

The gentle clop clop of Gawain's horse echoed beside them, and the blond knight shook his mane before smiling at Frances. He too, had borne witness of their earlier disagreement, and the not so subtle way she'd quelled Tristan's anger.

— "Don't worry," Gawain said playfully. "He'll come round"

Galahad watched as their scout, several paces ahead of the group, gently ruffled his damn bird's feathers. Brooding, given the intense scowl on his face. Beside them, Frances smirked, the victory assured on her face.

— "Oh! I know he will"

— "Tristan can be pretty stubborn," Galahad said, wondering how she would manoeuvre her way out.

Frances only winked at him.

— "Don't I know it! But I have my ways. Once I'm done with him, he might have forgotten his own name. Let alone why he was angry in the first place."

Then she spurred her horse forward with a melodious laugh, long reddish hair dancing in the wind as she caught up with her husband, her dark cape billowing behind her. Galahad's jaw dropped at the implication, his cheeks reddening as Gawain muttered 'lucky bastard' under his breath. His brother's blue eyes were dreamy, and Galahad kicked his side none too gently.

— "Hey, she's spoken for."

— "One can always dream…", responded Gawain with a wink.

Of course, Frances was an attractive woman, albeit a little short on curves compared to the tavern girls. But the way she moved … damn. If she was as fierce in bed as in battle, no wonder Tristan was tame. But Galahad had learnt, firsthand, not to see her through man's eyes as she belonged to the scout body and soul. Almost breaking Lancelot's wrist the first time he laid a hand on her warned them that she never would be anything but a friend. There was no use for the scout to be protective; Frances would rip their arms herself if she saw but a flicker of lust in their eyes. 'Emasculate' was her favourite threat.

— "He'll have your head if he hears you," Galahad muttered.

— "I doubt his attention is available for eavesdropping right now. Look"

The younger knight's eyes widened at the strange couple, now perched upon Tristan's horse with Hawk retreating on the scout's shoulder. She sat in his lap, arms firmly set around his taut form. It screamed of belonging; the embrace stronger even than his tattoos, the mark of her property. A weird family of sorts, the knight, his lady and their pet – a hawk. The deadliest trio that existed. Her horse kept close albeit released from its rider, and Frances' long reddish mane could barely be distinguished over Tristan's shoulder. Her laugh echoed upon the high walls as they climbed the steep cobbled path.

The trio passed the gate first, as was the scout's wont. Except that this time, he barely managed to keep his attention straight. Some promises danced in his mind, and the Bishop was altogether forgotten.

_**For those who just pop by, you could read the 'Nocturna' chapter after this one. I might give you an idea of just how this evening is going to be for Frances and Tristan heheh.**_


	6. Chapter 4 - Your latest trick

**_Inspiration has struck at the weirdest of moments. I was listening to the live 'The latest trick' by Dire Straits, this version is brilliant. I encourage you to listen to the song on youtube as you read this._**

It was one of their last concerts; Dire Straits had decided to stop touring, hence the importance of being here today. And there was nothing greater than letting the music penetrate him. His whole body vibrated, the pulse echoing in every fibre of his being, coaxing the beatings of his hearts. Around him, awed faces communicated with those exceptional musicians. Mark Knopfler's voice lilted in rhythm, the guitarist in a trance as was his wont whenever he performed. As if, once on stage, a music spirit took hold of him. Beside him, thrilled musicians followed his lead, some of them as awed as the public to be there, to be part of the Dire straits tour. He understood them, those artists who lived a childhood dream.

But his attention was elsewhere, for ever since his gaze has swept upon the crowd standing before him, Tristan had spotted ringlets of very, very long hair swaying across a delightfully arched waist. Hypnotised, he left his mind wander, caught in the movement as her fiery strands brushed across the small of her back like the caress of a gentle lover. Left, right, a little bouncing whenever the music picked up, sensual when it slowed down, the brilliance of a silken curtain that partially hid her upper back from view. Partially, only, for very soon, his eyes roamed across her whole frame.

He tried getting his attention back on stage where his heroes now played 'Sultans of swing', but found that he couldn't. Bewitched, Tristan could only realise, helpess, that his eyes had a mind of their own. And so he observed, noticing the slender waist and fuller hips, the rounded calves under her flaring skirt, just sculpted enough to seem feminine, yet muscular. Her lovely feet, encased in a pair of sandals with a very low heel, giving her enough mobility to make of her swaying moves a sensual dance. Her proud posture that made her seem taller than she really was, probably five inches less than he. And when she turned, her could only be mesmerized by the almond shape of her light brown eyes, the slender line of her jaw and slightly pointed chin, the curve of her high cheekbones rounded by smooth skin.

A true beauty that consumed his thoughts, absolutely unaware as she gently danced, lost in her own world.

Tristan knew he was lost when her warm chocolate eyes met his over someone's shoulder. His breath caught, all muscles coiled as time stretched, the beatings of his heart wild. Something passed then, the silent communication of two kindred spirits contemplating the world. Mesmerizing. He saw then, that she was a spirit of the forest and the sea, a wild soul entrapped in the dealings of this life. A little fairy, with a mane of reddish fire to remind her of the human world.

The young woman addressed him a shy smile, then turned around to resume her dancing in the crowd.

The concert went on, fantastic music blaring in his ears, fueling him with greatness, making his body hum in pleasure. But still, his eyes returned to her. The song ended; wild applause and cheers greeted the pause that followed. For a moment, the jumping crowd obscured her from view, until people settled again. Tristan had to sidestep to regain a full view of her. There was a man by her side; his hand landed on her shoulder and the shaking of her shoulders told him that she laughed. Tristan's heart lurched painfully, hawk eyes concentrated, as if he could strike the dark-haired man down where he stood. But his fears were for naught, for her friend's hands never once roamed to the rest of her. And the wolf inside of him, knew, in this very moment, that he needed to claim her before anyone else could.

The battery started a rhythmic tap tap, escorted by the strange sound of djembe. The assistance held its breath, some recognizing the song already, others, like him, expectant. But he wasn't waiting for the guitars to start playing like the rest of the crowd. No, his release would come differently, his own predicament held in the hands of a fiery dame. For his heart was in his throat, his mind frozen in fear, his hands trembling from the strain.

Luck, or destiny, was on his side, for the moment realization hit him like a fifteen ton truck, the saxophone started its complaint. The crowd cheered; his chest expanded. The first notes of "Your latest trick" echoed in the room, so powerful that it swept them all out of her feet. Tristan thanked the heavens for their own latest trick, providing him with the romantic tune that could stir any heart. The nicest of pushes, destiny rolling, like the wing of an angel brushing his cheek, telling him to go, go, go… And his body started to sway, just like hers, oblivious of his brain's requirement and doubts, and it felt like everything he had done until there led him to this moment. This crucial moment that lingered as his feet, frozen on the spot, refused to move.

And the saxophone eventually died, leaving its spot of honor to Mark Knopfler whose words rolled on his tongue like sugar coats caramelized fruits. And still, Tristan couldn't find the courage to move, and the first verse passed over him like a stream washing him of his sins and past dealings. Refreshing, revigorating, until the saxophone picked up the line again and people started singing along, a crowd of thousands meeting the notes with enthousiasm and wonder. Such an enticing melody, calling his body to dance the most sensual of dances, asking his surrender into a world where music was law. So when Mark finished the second verse and the saxophone, once more, called his body, Tristan knew.

Straightening, he pushed people out of the way and made a beeline for his little fairy. She didn't see him coming as her body swayed to the music, her ringlets brushing her hips rhythmically in an enthralling dance. Tristan extended his arm… and picked her hand. She turned around abruptly, frozen on the spot. He didn't allow his eyes to stray to her frowning friend, preferring to concentrate his intense gaze upon the lady.

— "Dance with me", he mouthed.

A moment passed, stretching to eternity, pulling his heart apart as she regarded him. Her chocolate eyes never left his, long eyelashes framing their lovely shape, her gaze penetrating his very bones. Then, things seemed to contract, the course of his life, the heartaches of the past, the strain of his days, all of his swallowed into a singularity. And when recognition dawned upon her features, Tristan could only wonder what she saw. But he had not a care in the world for she tightened her fingers upon his, accepted his lead, his overpowering presence and it all fell into place. Tristan pulled her close, sweeping her out of her feet to follow the saxophone's lead. And he turned, slowly sensually, his whole body enclosing hers, his hand upon her waist, the other gripping hers steadfast.

The saxophone caressed them with his sulky notes, and Tristan didn't let the little space he disposed off disturb him as he lifted one of his hands high above his head. His fairy had no choice but to turn below his arched arm, and he marveled at the ringlets than danced around her like a silken curtain, following loosely and brushing the bare skin of his arms. His other hand guided her around, applying a slight pressure to her waist until her revolution brought her nose to nose with him. Her chocolate eyes twinkled, slightly amazed, and he swore from up close she was even more beautiful. His chest was ready to burst, pride and wonder flowing through his veins as he refrained from kissing her senseless. The music picked up then, the saxophone launching in its final solo, permeating them to their very depth and Tristan claimed her waist one more. She latched unto his firm body without hesitation this time, her touch firm as their fingers joined once more. And again and again, they swayed like a couple of twin stars revolved around each other.

The others felt it too, this reunion of kindred spirits destined to collide once more. It was like a shockwave, a great one that stirred hearts and undressed shielded minds. The magic of two beings, amplified by the communion of bodies. Oblivious, they danced, bodies humming in unison, eyes locked as Tristan lead her. The enclosed space spread wider and wider as people took a step back, bewildered, until at last the guy holding the rhythmic guitar lifted his head. And he wondered if the world would survive the moment when those two would become one. Never in a million years he would believe that they were mere strangers, that the first touch has occurred less than two minutes prior.

Still, the saxophone bestowed upon them the last melodic notes of 'The Latest Trick', and the couple danced as if they were about to die. Sensually, slowly, legs entwined, arms locked around each other. Until the lady eventually rested her head on her man's shoulder, and the moment passed. And the song died, and the crowd regained its original density, the long fiery strands shielding the maiden from the world as the couple disappeared in the crowd.

The rhythmic guitar was needed again, and the man pulled out of his trance. But down there, hidden by thousand of heads, Tristan held the woman of his dreams and refused to let go. His heart threatened to burst out of his chest, his arms tingling all over the places it came in contact with her soft skin. Would she leave now the moment had passed?

But she seemed content to stay there, her head safely tucked in the crook of his neck, her breath fanning against him. As if it had been her place all along, and Tristan could swear that this spot now belonged to her. And had the world not conspired to pull them together, she still would have clung to him like a lifeline. But now the first notes of 'Romeo and Juliet' rung, and they both smiled as Tristan started swaying slowly, his other hand roaming her lower back in the most sensual of caresses. Then, at last, she stirred. Panicking, Tristan couldn't help but tighten his hold, and she arched her back to meet his gaze. Seeing the fear, the longing there, her hand came to rest upon his cheek. He closed his eyes, moved by the simplicity of her gesture, the tenderness of her touch.

He barely had time to brace himself, sensing the slight shift as she stepped on her toes, before her lips were caressing his in a feather like kiss. Tristan's hand tightened around her waist, the other one sliding into her hair as he responded, heart hammering in his chest, the air too scarce in his lungs. But he couldn't let go as her whole body melt in his arms, her sweet tongue dancing with his, sending shivers down his spine. No. Tristan could only surrender, and hope to survive her spell long enough to draw another breath…

As for the rest… the rest is history.


	7. Chapter 5 - Alive - First part

**_Hey. You have MairiMcKenna to thank for regarding this one. Since it is a one shot, let us shed the whole Legolas background story from 'All Hail to the King'. Frances is still the Keeper of Time, she loves her Tristan and period, let us not confuse everyone with a very complicated background. The only cloud on the horizon for our favourite couple; he is dying in her arms on the battlefield of Badon Hill. Damn._**

**_OK, so I think apart from Mairi, no one reads this. But if you do, drop me a little review, eh?_**

He was there, lying on his side, a crimson river flowing out of his body. Frances spat blood on the ground; the simple action to lift her head sent daggers through her shoulder. Just a few feet more … a few more. Crawling on the soaked ground, she winced at the pain. But she would not relent, for the man she loved laid dying. When at last, she was close enough to touch him, she laid her good hand on his shoulder. Tristan rolled on his back helplessly, eyes closed. Frances gasped, crawling closer still, leaning upon his armour. His right forearm was pierced by a huge dagger, the blade through his whole muscle, weapon still in place.

— "Tristan!" she called, her voice frantic. "Tristan!"

Her plea was desperate, tears gathering in her eyes. And he heard her. Taking a shaky breath, Tristan bestowed upon her his mighty gaze before he closed them once more.

— "Don't you dare!" Frances wailed. "Don't you dare leave me like this!"

But his life force was bleeding out of him through his many wounds, crimson droplets smeared all over his handsome features. Beside him, Frances closed her eyes as well, tears trailing down her cheeks. There was only one way out of this.

— "Dear Gods help me," she uttered through clenched teeth.

And in their mercy, touched by her distress, the Gods that controlled the magic of the necklace answered her plea. Frances felt the hum built up upon her chest, dismissing it as she sobbed. But the others noticed the bluish light that slowly crept up around her. Bors, Galahad and Gawain, battered and bruised, gaped openly as the light intensified around the witch. Then her head snapped, realisation dawning in. Her hazel eyes locked with the youngest knight for a second, just enough time for her to say goodbye. In the blink of an eye, the little fairy was no more. On the ground lay a pool of blood, Tristan's blood. And of the fiercest knight of the round table, nothing remained but his sword.

They landed upon the cold tiles of her living room, so out of place with their bloodied armours and shabby appearance. The pain of her shoulder, no longer pierced by a bolt, was rapidly fading. Once more the magic of the necklace had performed the miracle to reconstruct her from head to toe.

A gasp rose from the knight sprawled on the floor. He, too, must have been rebuilt for no blood pooled out of his former wounds. Frances sighed in relief, still shaken, as she sagged on her knees. Organs, bones and flesh alike were now in perfect working order. Except for the huge amount of blood he had lost, Tristan was, in theory, fit as a fiddle. Except for the dagger embedded in his right forearm. His breathing, though, was shallow. Too shallow, as if it would stop any minute. Frances set two fingers upon his neck, the faint beating of his heart difficult to pinpoint.

— "Tristan!" she called.

Nothing but a shudder passed his lips, and she shook his shoulder more forcefully.

— "Tristan, damn it!"

All blood left her face and she sat, panting heavily. She, too, was shocked and blood deprived. Her heart hammered a hundred miles a minute as she crawled to the phone, the cheap device still standing beside the sofa. There was no time to dwell on the weirdness of being home, with electronic appliances and the light on as the room started spinning. Frances closed her eyes tightly, willing the shock and blood loss away. If she passed out now, Tristan was doomed; he wouldn't make it without a blood transfusion at least. Fingers trembling, she composed the 15 and awaited. Seconds passed, too many, until someone picked up the line.

Frances was a mess, all analytical mind impaired by dread. Tugging on cable, she crawled back to Tristan as the paramedic tried to calm her down, giving her instructions she had trouble following because she shook from head to toe. Pull him into safety position – easy, when not dealing with such a heavy weight – make sure he still breathed – with the armour on, she couldn't say – if not, perform CPR – with the plastron, yeah. The ambulance was on its way. Hold the line, the woman said, don't let go. She wished she could have this self-control. Frances left the handset on the floor, impatient fingers tugging at the laces of the armour. The medics couldn't find them clothed and armed to the teeth. Especially Tristan, who probably had a thousand daggers hidden within the confines of his armour.

He smelt of horses and sweat, of blood and gore. Hair matted, crimson droplets all over his face and clothes. Damn, and she as well. Frances removed the main pieces of her leather armour that impaired her movements, and worked on shedding him of the heavy plastron and shoulder pieces. Every second, she bent over him, her ear close to him mouth to ensure he was still breathing. But even unconscious, Tristan was a stubborn man. He didn't let go on the thread of life he held on to. Frances regained a little composure, shedding every single protection, and every blade she could find into the closet behind her. Her armour followed suit, kicked mercilessly behind the door. The Saxon's dagger, the one in his arm, remained where it was. She was too afraid to damage his arm to remove it; what if she torn muscles and tendons? What if he started bleeding massively?

She knew she should change her tunic and breeches if she wanted to avoid questions, but she couldn't resign herself to remove her hand from his chest. For beneath her fingers, his heart beat so faintly that it felt like every pulse was the last. No, she couldn't move, mesmerised by slight tremor of his bloodied tunic – stubborn man, there were slices everywhere – beneath her fingers. His warmth was gone, the fingers of his left arm too cold to the touch. Frances grazed them slightly, and was surprised when Tristan's hold tightened. He was barely conscious, yet he clung to her like a lifeline.

And then the worst happened. Tristan's heart missed a beat. Cold dread run along her spine, her stomach clenching.

— "Come on," she said.

Another beat responded, and she sighed in relief. But it was the last, for his heart had, altogether, stopped.

— "Tristan!"

Nothing happened. He just lay there, limp under the palm of her hand.

— "Tristan, don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

The paramedic on the phone started yelling instructions, trying to reach her. But she didn't hear… Panic seized her own heart, and she very nearly retched on the floor. Then, her whole body started shivering, and she placed her palms flat over his heart. Bless her recent first-aid training! It had been a few months ago, and she remembered well enough how to perform CPR. 1.2.3 …4.5 … 15.

— "Madam? Madam?" came the voice on the line.

— "Performing CPR‼", she yelled back.

Pulling Tristan's chin upwards, Frances blew twice into his mouth before starting over. Her vision swam. Tears of exhaustion rolling down her face. Her arms felt like jello, her heart racing in her chest. But she couldn't give up, not here, not now.

The wailing of a siren suddenly echoed in the street, the paramedics bursting onto her balcony, and into the room in an instant. It was lucky her door was unlocked. At once, they took over the cardiac massage. Like a swarm of bees, they injected Tristan with adrenalin, and when nothing happened, they resorted to the defibrillator. Frances watched the proceedings as if underwater, too shocked to collapse completely, her fingers grabbing his hand once more. He couldn't leave her. The white coats worked methodically, efficiently as they bared his chest. Not a word was said about the blood and gore coating the fabric. Those would come later.

— "Charge … complete, go!"

Once chock was all it took for Tristan's heart to start over, his body arching in protest. Tears filled Frances' eyes as her own heart threatened to leap out of her chest; it was painful to watch him subjected to such hardships. She couldn't remove her eyes from Tristan, lying helpless on the tiled floor in a torn and bloodied tunic. An image buried into her mind for the rest of her days. Therefore, she missed the look of horror on the emergency men as they eventually took in his state. But they knew what to do, and in a flurry of activity, they hooked Tristan to some IV and machines, asking her questions that were too ridiculous for her to answer.

— "Did he take any kind of drug?"

— "What is it blood type?"

— "How long has he been unconscious?"

It was so weird, to try to assess the time when he lay on the battlefield before she had found him, and add it to the ten minutes or so in her flat. There was so much she couldn't say.

— "Is he epileptic?"

Frances almost snorted at that; Tristan throwing a dagger should have answered that quite easily. No, the scout had not issues controlling his body. On the contrary. Many more questions were unanswered, they blamed the shock. She let them think so, for her head started spinning. Exhaustion, or blood loss, she didn't know. The paramedics loaded them in an ambulance, and off to the hospital, checking her vitals as they drove. All in all, Frances was in rather good health. Better than him, for sure.

The steady beep beep should have been reassuring, but she kept her hand over his heart nonetheless. The other hand remained latched to his fingers. The faint thud against her palm was the best sensation in the world; the testimony that Tristan had not given up … yet. What would he say when he woke up in this world? This blasted, crazy, polluted, modern world? She wondered … for just a moment, before darkness claimed her and she passed out on top of his chest.

The world had gone from incredibly painful – and he knew a lot about pain – to strangely blank, except for his right arm. This one still stung like hell. Too weak to open his eyes, he could only take in the entirety of his body, no longer screaming, laid gently upon a cold, hard floor. The noises, the smells of the battle were gone. The acrid smoke that burnt his lung as well. Perhaps this was what death felt like; he only regretted that Frances had followed him there. For he was sure that it was her fingers, tightly seizing in own, and her voice, screaming at him to wake up. But he couldn't … his life force had been sucked into the ground, his chest took the last shaky breaths before he fell into oblivion. He should have told her of his love before he passed away.

Tendrils of warm light reached for him, and he gave in happily. He was no longer cold, no longer corporeal. All sensations gone except for this peaceful halo of warmth. Tristan basked in the light for a while until Frances' screams of anguish caused him to look down. His broken body lay on white tiles, in a small room filled up with strange devices he couldn't make heads or tails of. But his attention rested solely on Frances as she started hitting his chest regularly, panting in exertion. What was the mad woman doing now?

Tears ran down her face as she counted … in an unknown language that he could, strangely, understand. Then she touched his face urgently, and kissed him. Twice. What a pity that he should be dead and not feel the softness of her lips upon him. By then, she has started hitting him again, or was it a massage? Her desperate plea called to him, yet the light awaited him. Tristan wondered. Should he linger in life, or embrace death? He had earned it honourably, the fight of his life. Yet … she was there, and desperate.

Then strange people clad in white rushed into the room, ushering Frances aside to perform the weird massage again. She clung to his fingers as if she was drowning in sorrow, her gaze blank as she watched the proceedings over his body. The man massaging his body blocked his nose, and pushed his lips upon him! Tristan's spirit shuddered as the urge to go down and beat them to a pulp surfaced. Ugh, where those men in white Romans? Had they no respect for the dead, kissing him like lovers? Bah! They tore at his shirt, revealing the hairs on his chest … but his numerous scars were gone. None of the Saxons' wounds marred his flesh either. What is sorcery? Frances' bolt was gone too, and she could use both of her arms. Nothing made sense. They were probably both dead then…

The men in white dragged a heavy suitcase, speaking urgently among themselves. The mentioned a charge, albeit he could not see beyond the weird room they were in. No horse could possibly barge in there, and for a moment, Tristan was relieved that Frances would be safe. Then they applied strange devices to his chest, preparing for something as they braced themselves backwards. A quick lightning bolt, a surge of pain, and then he knew no more.

Frances was slumbering in her chair, the bag of groceries propped over her feet. After they had dragged Tristan to surgery, she had sneaked out of the emergency box they ushered her in to take a walk. She wasn't collected enough to answer any of their questions, and needed to find a cover story that made sense and took into account all the elements – the blood on his vest, their location, the probable shock he would be in upon waking, their garments… Tristan wouldn't wake for two more hours – or so they said – and she cringed at the idea of him being alone in the reanimation wing. They had injected him two bags of B – blood already – a common group type in Sarmatia. She wasn't allowed there for safety reasons, and had tried to argue her case. Who knew what could happen when Tristan woke up from surgery? Drugged, in another world, after being dead at the hands of a Saxon… But the crew didn't allow her inside. In the meantime, Frances had taken a short walk to the city centre to clear her mind, and buy a pair of loose-fitting pants, a t-shirt and sweatshirt, briefs and sandals. His clothes – and the dagger – were detained for the police to investigate, and she didn't even know his size. It would have to do for now.

Slowly, but surely, an idea popped in her mind. What about an amateur movie gone wrong? A battle where Tristan was clumsily stabbed after shooting a gruesome scene, full of fake blood? In her panic, she would have driven back to her flat, and he had passed out on the floor. Then she had called the medics. Yes. And it painted her in a very stupid light; the young woman who took her Mongol – recently immigrated, this would account for the language – boyfriend home rather to the hospital after being stabbed through the arm. The more daft she appeared, the less questions she would face. The walk back had been exhausting; Frances only realised, the moment she crashed in the chair, how tired she was. She had sustained quite a blood loss as well, and the shock was slowly leaving her on low adrenalin. It was a wonder she had managed to keep her wits. So when her body won the game, and pulled her into fitful sleep, she surrendered to the need.

Time passed. Minutes, hours, she had no idea as she drifted in and out of consciousness in the busy corridor. The brutal sound of appliances crashing upon the floor and shouts pulled her out of her dreamless sleep. Nurses ran through the heavy door, yells and demands to 'calm down' as another crash was heard.

— "Get me a sedative!" she heard a man shout.

— "Restrain him!"

Then a voice, unmistakable, who shouted 'no!' The silk of it was gone, leaving only sheer desperation and steely resolve. Frances blanched and sprang to her feet, nearly toppling over in the process. Tristan was in danger, and so were the paramedics. If he killed someone … consequences would be dire in this world. There would be no escape. She had not saved his life for him to spend it in jail!

The young woman launched herself against the heavy doors where the clear sign 'personnel only' taunted her. The sounds of scuffles were louder on the other side, and she had no issues finding the reanimation room. Pure chaos greeted her, with five lab coats fidgeting near the door, another two trying to restrain an unbridled Tristan. His eyes were barely open, tubes sticking from his hand, a heavy bandage around his forearm and wires partially torn from his chest. A trail of blood ran down his other arm where he had ripped the IV off. But even in his semi-conscious state, he sent two men flying over to the wall as if he swatted flies. Damn, he was strong when his mind didn't restrain him!

Frances pushed her way in, ignoring the outraged 'hey' that were sent her way. Someone grabbed her wrist, jerking her backwards.

— "Let me go, you fool!" she shouted.

The man, clad in scrubs, tried to circle her waist but she was faster. In a swift move, she locked his wrist into a lock and twisted backwards, sending the man on his knees with enough control to prevent his articulation from snapping. Disabled, he could only let go of the young fury who launched herself forward. Wincing in pain, the nurse spared the odd couple a look, wondering who those people could possibly be. Patients could be violent when waking up but this … this pure, unbridled fury he'd never witnessed. As for the woman, she had disabled him in less time than it took to blink, and her clothes were covered in blood and grime.

He watched as the man, an impressive six feet fighter with an unruly mane of dirty hair, paused a second when the woman wound her arms around his chest. The scout barely suppressed the instinct to lash out before her familiar touch sent a wave of relief into his coiled body. He knew this woman, knew the scent that lingered in her hair.

— "It's me, Tristan it's me. You're safe, it's all right. It's me"

She kept repeating it like a mantra, until his eyes managed to focus on her face and he fell to his knees, dragging her with him. A woman stepped forward, intent on laying a hand to stabilise them but Frances's head snapped aside to glare at her.

— "Stay away!"

She had the intelligence to heed her warning, stilling instantly.

— "Frances?"

Tristan's voice was raspy and she instantly turned back to search his face.

— "Aye. It's all right"

Then his eyes glazed over, and for a second, she thought he would pass out in her arms. She held him desperately, as if her life depended on it, her chest expanding as her skin touched his. But then, the intensity of his gaze returned, realisation hitting him like a brick wall.

— "Dead. I was dead."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she tightened her hold upon him, barely mustering the strength to keep him upright. Has was badly shaken, and the spike of stress of his awakening left him on the brink of consciousness.

— "For a moment, yes. I thought I had lost you, Tristan."

His good hand came to rest upon her cheek, gently caressing her flawless skin. There was no bruise from the battle, no scar. Not even a trace of Badon Hill upon her. How?

— "Little fairy…"

His smouldering eyes pinned her in place, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. His head was swimming, mind unclear like the few mornings he had indulged in an evening drinking with Bors. And the pain in his arm pulsed like a snake. But her mouth was so close, rosy lips slightly parted, so inviting.

So when one of the white men cleared his throat aggressively, Tristan's body tensed anew. Refusing to address those unknown hostile people, he crunched his eyebrows and asked Frances instead.

— "Who … what?"

— "Healers. They will not hurt you. They fixed your arm, see?"

Confusion crept upon his face, and for a dreadful moment, Frances wondered if he understood her. His mind seemed fuzzy, and a little absent. Then he nodded, and tried to pull himself to his feet. She almost sighed at his stubbornness; never show weakness in front of strangers … or friends for that matter. Instead, she dragged his good arm around her shoulder to lead him to the bed. It was sorry sight, Tristan in nothing but a hospital blouse, wired like a roast. Like a stab to his dignity, sending a pang to her heart, for even in death on the battlefield, Tristan had remained a noble figure. Soon, she would have him clothed properly, for even if she had chosen in haste, the garments she had purchased would certainly do wonder to his pride. Dark colours and sobriety were the key. Tristan sat on the edge of the mattress, ready to spring forth, and she didn't push him to lay down for she didn't trust them. By now, the medics had cleared the way around them, seeing that the young woman had some measure of control over the wild beast that had assaulted them. Then, she turned to them, fire dancing in her eyes.

— "No one touches him without my consent."

The main doctor, a man of forty years or so and a sneer on his face, stepped forward to stare her down.

— "You are in no position to make demands, young lady."

Condescension. It always irked her, but today, she was in no mood to face this bullshit and exploded.

— "Like hell I am not! There are laws that you cannot refuse to comply with, and Tristan will be the one deciding what he is willing to accept or not from now on. Is that clear?"

As soon as her words came out, Tristan made to stand again. She appeased him with a hand upon his bare thigh – that was weird, touching the skin of his leg like this – her gaze conveying that all was well. He reluctantly settled back, muscles coiled, ready to attack.

— "Do not use that tone with me or I will have you removed."

Frances rolled her eyes. Doctors … they never knew when to shed their egos. Stepping away from Tristan, she took slow, deliberate steps until she was level with the head of service.

— "Try me," she ground out.

The man took an unconscious step away, taken aback by the fierceness of this slender woman. The blood marring her tunic only added to her fearsome appearance. Behind her, the nurse she had sent to the ground spotted the slight smirk on the patient's face, a feral look shining in her eyes.

— "The police will be interrogating you soon," said his boss.

— "Good. I'll be there…"

The threat was meant to intimidate, but the young woman only smiled, baring her teeth like her man had done barely five minutes ago. A disturbing expression that he never wanted to see again.

— "I'm sorry, did you think it would tame me?"

Silence descended in the room, and the nurse watched the proceedings with a wary eye. If their stubborn head of service didn't back down, there would be hell to pay. He decided to throw his two cents, hoping the woman wouldn't attack him again.

— "Is there a mental illness we should know about?"

Frances frowned. They meant autism, or any other diagnosed form of disability that would have led Tristan to react violently in the first place. And honestly, she wondered if, in this modern world, Tristan wouldn't be dubbed a sociopath. There was a long and difficult road ahead if she wanted him to adjust. But for now, she needed those people to understand the limits of his personal space.

— "No. But until recently, Tristan lived in a Samartian tribe with no modern appliances. This," she added, her hands showing the modern equipment "is overwhelming. Nor is he used to be prodded by unknown people, or to wake up from drug induced sleep"

The nurse nodded, and Frances sent him an apologetic wince.

— "How is your wrist?"

The main doctor scoffed. The nurse sent him a harsh glare to keep him silent; he was getting somewhere, and didn't need the son of a bitch to mess it up.

— "All right. You didn't break it"

— "Good. Sorry about that, emergency. I think Tristan needs a little time to come to terms with whatever happened. It is possible?"

It was too much for the head of service, who couldn't help but interfere.

— "Not in here, the room is supposed to be sterile. This is why this section is restricted to personnel only."

The young fury glared at him from head to toe, her hazel eyes promising death and torture should he cross her again. She seemed … lethal, like a she-wolf protecting her mate. Could they be secret agents?

— "Then move us to another room" was her stony response.

The nurse stepped in front of his boss to prevent things from escalating.

— "Yes, this is possible. We'll bring the wheelchair"

— "Don't bother," she scoffed. "He'll never sit in there."

And the nurse nodded once more, because he believed her. The man – Tristan, a knight of old, how fitting – had not winced once despite the horrible wound that had needed extensive surgery in his forearm. A two-inch blade has pierced him from end to end, for God's sake! And upon waking up from cardiac arrest and blood transfusion, he had literally thrown two grown men like rag dolls upon a wall. That was a force of nature!

Frances turned back to Tristan. Sitting on his bed, he sent her a loaded look. He trusted her to handle the situation, but she had no doubt questions were blooming in his mind. A shiver ran down her spine as she wondered, once more, if her choice has been the right one.

Only time would tell.

**_So … this is the beginning. Any idea what kind of scene you would like to read in this context? Tristan discovering strong alcohol and getting hammered? Tristan getting out in the street with Frances' kitchen knife because you can't go out without a weapon? Tristan discovering indoor plumbing? Tristan blowing the microwave to because he forgot a fork inside? _**


	8. Chapter 6 - Alive - Second part

**_So, Tristan is still alive, and will need a little time to adjust. For the moment, he had no idea about the outside world and what it looks like._**

**_Mairi… I think you're going to get very very hot _**

Police has come and gone, buying, or not, the incredible tales she fed them. Given that no formal complaint would be filled out by the victim – Tristan – there was nothing much they could do apart from checking if a murder was linked to their case. This amount of blood could not be overlooked easily, but they would find no lead anywhere in the 21st century. The proceedings of modern life were just too tedious for Frances tired mind, and this very night, she fell asleep on the chair beside Tristan. Of course, the nurses had tried to tell her that visiting hours were over. They had coaxed 'he will be well taken care of' and threatened 'we will call security'. All to which she has answered, 'I don't give a damn because I am not moving from here.' Until Tristan had had enough, and asked gruffly that they send their minions – literally – so that he could slice them open and keep his woman by his side. His heartfelt reaction coupled to his archaic wording and strange accent had appeased the nurses. Or terrified them. Frances couldn't care less. She had gently caressed his temple before he fell asleep, and settled in the chair.

Tristan's heart was still under surveillance; it beat steadily now that his fluids' balance was restored. His saturation as well, thanks to the blood transfusion. They flooded him with antibiotics with an IV, but would soon revert to standard oral medication such was his strong constitution. All in all, nurses and doctors alike didn't understand much of what had happened. The scout was exhausted, and had not been conscious for long. Just enough to ensure Frances would not be bothered anymore before he fell into regenerative sleep. But in the middle of the night, he woke up with a start, wondering once more if he was dead or not. And finding his little fairy, neck craned upon the uncomfortable chair, he could only contemplate their entwined fingers. Not once since she had dragged him into her world had Frances broken the contact, except for the surgery and subsequent awakening.

She wore something foreign, a strange-fitting garment that looked like a tunic with a rounded hem, but devoid of laces or buttons. It did show her figure rather beautifully. The strangeness of their clothes had no limits, especially those white coats they all wore in the healing rooms … hospital. The fabric was so thin that he could find no use for it. Anyway … he would study those details in the morning light, when his head didn't feel so fuzzy and his eyes so heavy.

Tristan squeezed Frances' hand a few times until she drowsily grunted.

— "Little fairy," he called.

And the silky tones were back, now that he had drunk to his heart's content. Frances had brought him, right before dinner, a strange fragile container of what she called 'tea'. It had eased up his parched throat and burnt his fingers when he has squeezed it too tight. Immediately, she lifted her head to him.

— "Tristan, you are awake. How do you feel?"

— "Naked"

The attempt at humour wasn't lost on her, and she gave him a weary smile. Even in the faint artificial light – the concept still sent his mind reeling – the dark circles under her eyes were daunting. She had lost blood too, and not received a 'transfusion'. The concept of transferring from one body to another left him bereft, but he felt much better. He wondered how long it would take Frances to restore her health. Maybe they would accept to give her some pouched blood as well?

— "I will remedy to that. I have found some clothes for you."

How, when, where had she procured garments for him? Questions better left for tomorrow.

— "Good. Until then, hop on the bed"

— "Uh?"

The scout smirked; the faint quirking of his lips nearly invisible in the night.

— "Come, there is space enough. You will keep me warm, and sleep better."

The young woman froze, her expression so stunned that he fell in love all over again. Then she turned to the door, her mind hazy from lack of sleep before her chocolate eyes met his again.

— "Are you sure? The nurses … they might…"

— "Damn the nurses. I'll glare, they will scatter in fright. Now come before you break your neck on this chair."

And like every time Tristan ordered, she obeyed. He was, after all, a practical mind. The scout moved a few inches as Frances climbed awkwardly on his good side. He lifted his arm for her to dive under the IV, and pulled her closer than she would have dared. There was just enough space to keep from falling, leaning on her side. Tristan kissed her temple, his lips lingering, before he tightened his grip on her waist. Frances eventually relaxed, her arm landing upon his wire-clad chest only covered by the thin blouse. Her other hand, stuck below her body, came in contact with his bare thigh; damn those short blouses! It the knight didn't tense up, she blushed bright red. They had never been in such an intimate position, yet it felt so good, to be enclosed in his strong embrace. Skin upon skin, scent and limbs mingled; everything she could yearn for. Exhaling a sigh, the young woman let her head fall upon his shoulder. His presence enveloped her, the steady beating of his heart lulling her to sleep.

— "Rest, little fairy. I won't let you fall"

And he didn't.

Morning came way too early, and with it an amused nurse who tutted slightly as she took in the bloody couple. She had heard of their circumstances, and his heart failure. Gossip also covered the confrontation between the young fury and the head of service; it was high time someone put that arrogant doctor to his rightful place. And despite regulations, seeing them gently slumbering on the bed, the redhead stuck against his side, one hand on his beating heart, sent a smile to her lips. This was love as it was written in the lores of old.

The moment her eyes returned to the man, she realised he was watching her. His stare pinned her into place, and for a moment, she almost forgot how to breathe. The burning ambers of his eyes, half-hidden under the unruly mop of hair, were as foreign as the tattoos marring his high cheekbones. Mongol, they had said, quite a wild and exotic man. He did not move an inch, but one second later, the woman started from her sleep, jumping like a child caught her hand in the bag. Her legs found nothing but void and she toppled over the side of the narrow bed. It was only by the grace of his swift movement that the redhead righted herself and landed on her feet like a cat. The nurse blinked, musing how the stories were nowhere exaggerated. Whispers that they were secret services, or James and Jane bond, didn't seem so far-fetched. From the synchronicity of their moves, and the way they were attuned to each other, she didn't doubt it.

— "Hello there," she smiled. "May I check on your vitals?"

The man sent a look to his woman, and she nodded.

— "Yes," he only responded.

The nurse took his pulse, temperature, and unplugged the IV that restrained his moves with practised ease, and no pain at all. While she detached the horrible white patches upon his chest, pulling at the chestnut curls, she babbled to Frances about paperwork, antibio something and vitale cards. Tristan left her to her conversation as she asked tons of questions. Stitching, antiseptics, gauze, insurance, medication, physiotherapy… She certainly had a lot to ask, and he wondered what she would make of the insane amount of information she was extracting from the nurse. Said nurse – clad in another blouse, green this time – seemed friendly enough.

— "Let me know if you need help for the shower," she told Frances.

The redhead made a face.

— "I will handle it"

The nurse only gave her an amused glance, her blue eyes twinkling.

— "Yeah, I had an inkling you might say that. Remember, no water on the stitches."

Then she turned to him.

— "I'll see you before the end of my shift, young man."

Tristan nodded, his features less tense. As soon as the door was closed, Frances rushed to him.

— "Come on Tristan. Let's have a shower and a change of clothes. We need to sneak out of there. You have no papers and no insurance, I think it best we disappear at once. But not before we wash, else we will attract too much attention."

— "Thank the Gods, woman."

Frances only nodded; she knew him well. All those beeping appliances and people fussing over him tried his patience. And there was a distinct feel of death in this place, the clean environment matching the condescension of those white coats. As if he wasn't in possession of his wits, and needed to be coddled like a child. Let's see how those eminent doctors fared on a battlefield!

— "I can take care of you at home, I have all the info I need now."

Tristan sent her a grateful look and stood shakily. Home. Not his home – hers, but it felt good nonetheless to hear that he would be welcome. Blood rushed to his legs, then back to his head as Frances awaited, her hand supporting his left arm; the only useful one. She led him to the adjacent room, and he couldn't help but detail the appliances here either. A huge mirror, smoother than he had ever seen, sent his image back to him. And it wasn't flattering in the least. Matted hair, sagged posture and horrible tunic. Tristan straightened at once, a growl of anger at the back of his throat while Frances only waited for him to come to terms with whatever he was seeing.

— "What now?" he asked gruffly.

The young woman lifted a hand to his tattooed cheeks, swallowing uneasily.

— "I will help you bath and dress … if you don't mind."

His pride recoiled violently at the idea, but his gaze swept over the strange tiled room and he realised he had no idea how to perform the deed. Frances told him that his bandage must stay dry for the stitches to heal, and truth be told, it hurt like hell. There was no way he would be able to use his arm anytime soon. Nodding once, Tristan walked to the strange white seat that unfolded from the wall – plastic, she had told him while Frances fumbled with a long cord and a set of metallic buttons. Water suddenly sprouted from the cord as he sat and Frances left her hand below the steady flow until she was satisfied.

Frances was trying hard not to soak the bottom of her pants, and tried to roll the legs up her calves. It gave him a perfect perspective over her backside and he fidgeted in the very fragile seat. Totally oblivious of the effect she had on him, Frances mused on her predicament; how to keep relatively dry in the only pair of clothes she had. Rolling up her sleeves as well, she turned to the now sitting knight … only to find him entirely naked.

— "Oh"

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she took in the magnificent sight of his coiled body, her eyes refusing to linger in the most private parts. Sinewy muscles created a powerful pattern under his skin, the bulk of his shoulders packed with efficient fibres. There sure was no amount of fat to envelop the incredible work of art that was his anatomy. Frozen in place with the shower head leaking warm water, she watched as his lips gave her a wolfish grin.

— "Like what you see?"

Cheeky scout! Cheeks ablaze, she chose to meet his gaze head on, and told him without a second thought.

— "You are magnificent, Tristan."

His faintly marked eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into his fringe. Tavern wenches usually didn't say anything to him, nor that he reciprocated whenever they tried to converse. In the past, a few had complimented him, calling him handsome, or manly, or a beast altogether; the ones who liked that he could pack a punch, to so speak. But never before had a woman reddened from embarrassment and voiced her admiration at the same time. Magnificent. The scout swallowed under her unwavering gaze until her features suddenly brightened with a new idea.

Forgotten was her discomfort as the fiery lady shoved the shower head in his good hand, directing the flow downside. Then she stepped back to strip to her undergarments. It was his turn to stare with heated eyes as she adorned his hospital blouse upon her panties, stowing her only set of dry clothes away. Then she plunged her hands into the sleeves, removing an article of clothing he had never seen before. Some sort of bond for her breasts, if his guess was correct. Which left her in a very, very thin blouse and an inexistent piece that resembled a Roman subligaculum. Except for the extra fabric.

Frances sent him a tender smile as she approached, her eyes solely resting on his upper body.

— "There, rest your arm upon the knobs."

And Tristan complied, slightly shaken by the intimacy of this situation, especially in the middle of a hospice. Fifteen years among Romans had only strengthened his disgust for their exhibitionism. Tristan was not ashamed of his body – far from it. At thirty-one, he could have displayed it proudly among those degenerated people and won many an admirable look from the ladies. But he was a man of honour, a man raised in different traditions, and nakedness meant … something more. So when Frances started pouring warm water over his skin, the scout had to rein his thundering heart, and his wandering hand. His finger grasped the side of the plastic chair instead.

She transformed his bath into the most sensual of dances. Tristan left the warmth roll over his body, her soft fingers massaging the liquid soap unto his skin, washing the grime and blood away. Her blouse was getting soaked, giving an inkling of her skin underneath the cotton garment. Her long legs, quite bare from her upper thighs, called to him continuously. There was nothing more erotic than exposed legs, and he was hard pressed to contain his eagerness when she danced around him, her hands roaming his body with careful strokes. Blessed be his exhaustion!

The predator in him bristled, and his hand shot up to encircle her waist, dragging her between his open knees. Her skin touched his inner thighs and Tristan refrained a shudder. There was nothing more between their chests than the soaked cotton sheet, and he tilted his head upwards to see her face.

— "Little fairy," he breathed as warm water trickled down his shoulders.

His gaze held so much fire than he saw her falter. His grip tightened on her waist, unrelenting, stating his claim. If he so wanted, he could bury his nose between her breasts… Their soft swell started to show through the soaked blouse, taunting him. Yet he didn't; she wasn't a tavern wench. Respect prevented him from doing so. Frances lifted her free hand to caress his cheekbone, then she pulled his chin a little higher to expose his throat. Tristan complied, absolutely helpless. Frances dipped her head, barely brushing his lips with her own – just enough to make his heart miss a beat – before warm water flowed over his hair. Her hands gently massaged his skull as she washed his mane. Slowly, caringly, she spread soap in the tangles, unbraided his uneven strands, then worked her deft fingers through the knots before rinsing it thoroughly. Tristan didn't let go of her slender waist until she had deemed him thoroughly cleaned.

Then she sat at his feet, shedding the now see-through blouse, her back turned to him, and started washing herself as well. Tristan accepted the invitation, using his free hand to spread soap over her back and long reddish hair, marvelling that, soaked, they brushed the floor when she sat. Frances lifted a leg, her hands covering the length of it before retreating and taking care of the second one. Tristan could only watch, mesmerised by the roundness of her calf, the delicate feet and tautness of her thigh. Once more, he could only marvel as the softness of her skin, and the absence of scars. He had none left either. When Frances shifted on her knees to rinse her long hair, he plunged his fingers into the long mane that ended just over … just in the right place. At last, she stood and wrapped a diminutive towel around her small frame, her rounded backside exposed for a second. Then she draped a bigger fluffy white sheet over him, careful not to jolt his arm, and left him in the tiled room to gather his wits. Tristan exhaled slowly, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. Never before had he spent so much time, stark naked, in a room with a woman without banging her mercilessly. Never before had a moment felt so appeasing, so devoid of expectations, so freely given. Her touch was healing.

When Frances returned, fully clad in those soft garments that moulded her curves – creamy coloured at the top, dark blue for the breeches – the steely glint shone anew in the scout's eyes. She presented him with the same set of strange clothes. Tristan's long fingers prodded the fabric, curious about its properties. Soft, and unstable as it twisted under the pull.

— "Jersey," she told him. "Thin threads of cotton knitted together to make it extensible. I didn't know your size so I had to improvise."

The knight only nodded, as she helped him pass the dark earth brown material over his head. Pulling his injured arm in the tiny hole of the sleeve was another matter, but it surprisingly accommodated the bandage without compressing it. Briefs, or boxers, were puzzling, and the breeches amazed him even more. The fabric was soft, the scratching so inexistent on his skin that he felt naked. Frances added then a vest of the same material, a far cry from his roughly sewn leather coat, that fit a little loosely over his shoulders. A metal chain kept it closed with an ingenious system – a zipper, she called it.

— "To keep you warm. It is late spring here, but you are wounded."

Tristan nodded; she had thought to keep him warm to prevent illness. He wondered where she had got the items she presented him with; another question for a later time.

Frances eyed him warily, admiring her shopping skills as he watched his new self in the huge mirror. Its regularity still amazed him; never before had he seen a mirror more than five inches wide, and they always deformed images. Here, it felt like staring at a double of yourself. For the first time since the day of his birth, Tristan saw himself truly, with colours untainted by bronze or copper.

It was strange, as if he had been turned into another man. His hair was gathered at his nape by a string she had found – or stolen, his tattoos and eyes exposed. Hair clean, beard still unkempt, though. She may be able to do something about it, his little magician.

He could feel her bristle beside her, tension radiating through her body, indicating time was short.

— "Come and sit on the bed," she asked.

Tristan complied as she passed socks upon his feet, the item another strangeness before she secured very comfortable sandals over them. The young woman tutted disapprovingly while pulling on the throngs. They produced a strange scratching noise that puzzled him.

— "What is it?" he asked.

— "Ah, nothing. I just miscalculated your shoe size, they are too small."

Tristan wiggled his toes in the flat shoes and snorted.

— "Don't fuss over this, woman. I can walk"

Frances gave him a puzzled look, then relented. She had picked up a 43 … obviously, Tristan was closer to a 44 but given the simplicity of the sports sandals, it would do. Standing up, her breath caught. The vision of the scout clad in sports clothes – it was her best shot – was so foreign. Strangely enough, it fit him rather well, the brown hues mixed with black giving him a stealthy appearance. He still stood out, his long hair and beard called for attention just as much as his posture and striking eyes.

Escaping the hospital was easier than expected, and very soon, they were both treading through the streets. Personnel was so scarce nowadays that she doubted they would run after them both, especially after her little display with the head doctor. The hour, 10 am on a Friday morning, made it a quiet hour and Frances was grateful for it for Tristan was already in overload of information. The smells of pollution and human activity, the tarmac, cars, street lamps, dogs in leash and a thousand items sent his mind in turmoil. He jumped every now and then, and nearly attacked a car when the man honked at the bottom of a building for his girlfriend to come out. His eyes darted everywhere as he walked, taking in the short skirts that women dared wearing in public, or the tight-fitting pants some men adorned without shame. What a shock it must be for him!

His irritation only grew when he realised how tired he was, and the slow rhythm his body was able to sustain. He that was used to walk at a brisk pace in any condition was already panting, his muscles screaming from the lack of oxygen. It would take time for him to heal; and he had trouble being thankful for the miracle to not be a pin cushion when his fitness was so badly impaired. Should anyone attack them now, he was defenceless. No weapons, a slow body, it couldn't be worse. Fortunately, those foul-smelling streets were rather deserted and no one spared them a glance as they went about their business. Compared to the fort where he was used to being greeted with a nod, or at least stared at with fear, no one cared about him. Most glances came from men who eyed Frances appreciatively, their eyes lingering at the small of her back where her braid danced. Tristan's fists clenched, and unclenched rapidly until she reached for his arm.

Tristan sighed. There was no sense of community, no bonds between those people in this huge place. For they had walked for a while now, and only came to the city centre as Frances instructed him. She explained the devices as they walked, and he tried to ignore the frustration of the pain of his arm, and his weakness to pay attention. She was studying science and lived in an apartment. Used her parent's allowance to pay for the rent, food, and her car; the metal machine that replaced horses, made too much noise and smelt bad. The city there were in held a hundred thousand souls – Damn it! – and was situated in the north east of Gaul, closer to the Saxons than he might have liked. She explained there was no war to be feared, and it was forbidden to kill or attack anyone else he would end up in jail. Tristan eyed the people milling about; for sure, none of them seemed in shape to take him even in his pitiful state.

At last, they emerged in what seemed like the main street. Tristan gaped openly at the sets or metal rods incrusted in the floor that stretched as far as he could see – the tramway line, and the intricately carved building that would have shamed Marius's estate. The columns were rounded, snaking like vines in complicated patterns, climbing across front doors up to the second or third story. This main street, devoid of cars, was busier than the rest, and very soon Tristan found himself overwhelmed. There was so much to see, so many people passing them requesting at least a glance to guess their intentions towards them – a habit – stores of any kind, screens with moving pictures, the smell of bakeries and another warm one that Frances called coffee. Frances led him slowly, carving the path for them so that his attention could linger. Then a whizzing noise echoed in the street, and the scout whirled around.

A huge snake of metal was coming their way, stopping just a few feet from where they stood.

— "That's the tramway. Some ground transportation, powered by the wires over there"

Frances showed him the black threads of metal over his head, and he could barely nod as the device started its course anew, passing them. Tristan spotted his reflection on the doors, his lost look and strange garments enough to make him cringe. His mind was on the verge of crumbling down. Sensing his distress, Frances tugged on his hand.

— "Come," she said. "We'll take a break, I am tired."

Smart woman, invoking her fatigue rather than his disability to avoid from bruising his ego. It was no use, of course, and his gruffness very nearly took over. But when his eyes lingered on her face, he could only take in the paleness of her skin. On a whim, Tristan embraced her; she melted into his chest as if she had been created to complement him. Then he passed his left arm over her shoulder, as he had seen young couples do, and whispered in her ear.

— "Lead the way, little fairy."

She beamed at him, causing a smile to bloom on his face and pride to swell in his heart; she was so easy to please. They ended up in a shop called 'Gourmandise' with a few tables and a counter laden with dark little pieces of … something. As soon as they passed the door, a delicious smell hit his nose. His stomach grumbled heartily, led by the enthralling fragrance. Frances negotiated a table at the back where he could seat closer to the wall; this would give him full view over the place. The large window reached up the ceiling – something he had never seen before. The glass, uncoloured, protected them from the breeze but he could still see-through. This time was full of wonders.

Frances fidgeted a moment, wondering if she should dose Tristan with caffeine, then decided against it. His heart was still fragile, even after blood transfusion. Choosing instead a cappuccino for herself, and a liégois chocolate – for him, she reached for his hand and gave his mind time to settle. The surprise would come soon enough, for this place was rather unique, even in France. A chocolate shop who also served beverages, all hot drinks coming with a little arrangement of fine delicacies. She wanted to see his face when he tasted their hot chocolate topped with cream. The best she had ever tasted. And the pastries. They both needed the sugar boost after their ordeal. For the moment, though, Tristan was silent, and she took advantage of the break to rest her mind. She, too, had gone through quite a stressful period. Her mind still had trouble adjusting to being back. Galahad, Arthur and the others left behind without even a goodbye. The fate of Briton out of her hands. How she wished she had more time to wish everyone a fond farewell. It was all a little too much, and her eyes misted over. She blinked the tears back, grateful that Tristan's gaze was still stuck on the street. She couldn't wait to be home, and crash into her bed … with him if he so wanted. His arms had been so enticing; she had slept like a baby.

The waitress soon came with their orders, and she set on the table two huge cups overflowing with whipped cream. Frances nearly sagged in relief when she set several pieces of chocolate with them.

— "Thank you," she chimed.

— "You're very welcome. Bon appétit"

Tristan's calculating gaze followed the woman, wondering at the very professional, but distant smile she had addressed him. Her white blouse, filled with buttons, fitted her curves rather suggestively, and so did the breeches. For a moment, he wondered how the dark-haired serving girl would react is he pulled her into his lap and started groping her. Not that he felt like it, mind you. Then his nose caught the scent of sugar, and another spice that he didn't know of. Frances was holding a little brown square in his direction, a sly smile on her face.

— "Here, I think you will enjoy it."

He picked it up, brushing her fingers in the process, and engulfed it entirely. Sugar-coated his tongue, and the subtle taste of something warm and powerful.

— "Chocolate. Made from a plant called cacao."

Tristan's mouth relished in the taste, his eyes sparkling, and she pointed to the steaming cup set before him.

— "We can make a beverage out of it. Cacao mixed with hot milk and cream."

A sudden flare of bitterness hit him; did she think him a child?

— "You are feeding me with milk, woman?"

For a moment, she stared at him, wide-eyed at the implication. Then she bit her lip, and his anger fled, replaced by the sudden urge to kiss her sensual mouth.

— "Your heart stopped, Tristan. I don't want to risk anything that might entice him to do it again. So for the moment, yes. I though milk and sugar could help both of us."

The scout reached for her fingers, kissing her knuckles slowly, his sensual lips moulding around them.

— "Aye, it will help. Thank you"

That was as close as he would ever come to an apology, and she reclined in her seat, plunging her nose into the cup with a contented sigh. This place was her temple, soothing heartaches and weariness alike. And when they eventually emerged, an hour later, they were both fit enough to make the final leg of their journey.

The last steps were pure agony, those huge marble stairs that stretched to the first floor of the building. Then, at last, Frances fished her keys out, and they barged into her flat, panting from exhaustion. The blind was already open; she had not bothered closing it when the ambulance had taken Tristan away. Sunlight now flooded the huge glass wall that led to the terrasse and Tristan took a moment to assess her main room. There was so much to do, like washing their armours and blades to prevent rust from settling in. For the moment, though, she just wanted to crash into bed and sleep for days.

Sparing a glance at the scout, she wondered if he would need a little privacy to come to terms with his new situation. Their relationship was a little murky, and she didn't want to push him.

— "I, uh. I need some sleep"

— "Aye"

It as lucky Frances was fluent in Tristan's talk, for it could mean anything from 'get into bed and leave me be', to 'I'm ready to pass out on the threshold'.

— "Do you wish to… I can open the living room bed for you if you want."

Wrong words, wrong idea. She realised it the moment his features closed off and his eyes hardened.

— "Don't want a killer in your bed, little fairy?" he sneered.

Her first instinct was to defend herself, yelling at him that she was only being considerate and he a stubborn scout. She quelled the need mercilessly; like an ant below a booted heel. With Tristan's frame of mind and self-depreciation, she knew the full bloom argument such retort would entail. The man had just died, left his life behind and been dragged into another world. She ought to cut him some slack. Instead, she exhaled slowly and reached for his hand.

— "Don't say that, Tristan. I would be glad to have you in my bed, if only to rest for the moment."

My, she was getting bold, his little fairy. Eyes squinted; the scout scrutinised her features to suit his lie detector. The knight only nodded, his emotions all over the place. And when she reached for his hand to take him to her bedroom, he realised the enormity of it all. He was going to lay in Frances' bed, in the Keeper of Time's bed. In her home, her world, her time. And his mind was still reeling when she opened the covers for him to sneak in on the right side – where his arm wouldn't be harmed. What was it, with this woman, that she always thought of his comfort? No one had ever done that for him, not since he was a kid. And even then… Life as a nomad tribe was a difficult one. He had been raised by a harsh father, and a tough mother.

Frances knelt as he sat, pulling the sweatshirt and t-shirt from him with a blush. She then helped him shed his pants – her marvelled once more at the elastic band at his waist – and awaited for him to lay down in the soft cotton sheets. The whole place smelt like her, cushions and comforter included.

— "Will you be able to rest with the pain?" she asked.

— "Aye. I am spent."

Coming from the scout, this was a rather loaded statement, one he felt safe confessing in the intimacy of her place. Frances pulled the covers over him and bypassed the bed, hesitating a moment before she stripped to her underwear and slipped beside him. Then she lifted his good arm to settle upon his chest like the previous night. Her head fit nicely in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, and he marvelled at the sensation of her bare skin against his. Her breaths evened out in less time than it took to blink, such a testimony of her trust that it warmed his heart. Tristan drifted to sleep mere moments later, wondering how he would fit in this place, but determined to try nonetheless. Be it only for the sake of his little fairy.


	9. Chapter 7 - Alive - Third Part

**_Hey Koba, just read your reviews. Thank you. Did you know that Sarmatian women were sometimes buried, fully armed for battle? This is the extend of trust and importance that women had in this Iranian like culture (Regarding the Woads chapter). Anyway, you made me laugh so much with your 'fine, more chocolate for me'! I love your humour, it never fails to bring me joy._**

**_So I think, all in all, that this story is your favourite. Tobi, there's your hypo: D And sorry about the T rating :D_**

Frances was startled out of sleep by sounds coming from the bathroom. How had Tristan escaped from the bed without her noticing? That was a wonder; she was a light sleeper, always aware of her surroundings. Somehow, that man was sneakier than she was, and her radar wasn't on whenever he was close. This was disturbing though. Did she count on him to keep her safe? Meh, she didn't want to become his brother knights, always relying on him to assess the danger.

For the moment, though, a loud thud made her spring on her feet.

— "Tristan?" she called, dragging the curtain that separated her bedroom from the bathroom.

Her knight was sitting on the floor, his back propped against the bathtub, sweat trickling from his brow. Cold dread washed over Frances as she rushed to his side, kneeling in front of him.

— "My God. What happened?"

The sudden movement caused a strange wave of nausea to claim her stomach; she set it aside to tend to him, hoping the sick feeling would quell by itself. Tristan only sent her a levelled look, seemingly unperturbed by his poor state and shaking limbs. Her hand came to rest upon his brow; no fever.

— "I felt sick. And faint" came his smooth voice, stating those facts as if assessing a battlefield.

He was a mess, sitting awkwardly in nothing but his briefs, his long leg popped to support his injured forearm. So pale, nearly greenish in the late afternoon light. Frances frowned and took in his sweating form despite the absence of fever, the word 'sick' lighting a bulb in her mind. Her nausea … damn! She, too was affected. Low blood sugar was an ailment she knew well, she should have recognised it on the spot. What had she been thinking, feeding a medieval man with a dose of artificial sugar that could very well kill him! Rushing to her feet, she ran to the kitchen and picked up a little biscuit, then an apple.

Her own system was protesting violently about the lack of proper food she had consumed those last 24 hours. 'Just a moment, give me a moment,' she begged. Her mind was slightly swimming, and she bit down on the apple, her other hand holding her up on the counter. The fresh taste of sugar under her tongue gave her the boost she needed, and she retreated to the bathroom. Tristan had not moved an inch, his chest heaving as he tried to repress the urge to throw up. Poor man! What an introduction to the modern world. She would have to be extra careful when dosing him with pain medication.

— "There," she said, kneeling in front of him once more. "Eat the biscuit, then you can have the apple. You're not handling the sugar, you need a little more into your system then I'll cook"

Tristan watched her with wary eyes, wondering what his woman was blabbering about again. Then he snatched the biscuit and engulfed it instantly. For a moment, nothing quite happened, then the pressure upon his chest and the fires of his stomach started to ease up. When he felt like he wouldn't throw up anymore, he plucked the apple out of her hand, discovering the little hole her teeth had carved inside. Tristan quirked an eyebrow, and a smile bloomed on her face.

— "Sorry. I wasn't feeling so good myself. Want me to get another one?"

— "No. But I want a knife"

Frances frowned, retreating a step to give him a little breathing room.

— "Tristan, you're shaking all over."

— "I can use a knife on my death bed," he sternly replied.

Frances huffed.

— "You can't use your right hand."

— "A knife, woman!" he growled.

Frances stood, sending him a glare that he shouldn't have found so endearing. Especially since she only wore her undergarments, and the whole expense of her lovely stomach was exposed to his keen eyesight. She was so easy to mess up with, his woman, he just couldn't help it.

— "Fine! But if you chop your finger off…"

His scoff was the only reply he graced her with, and Frances stomped to the kitchen to get him a stupid blade. Not that she had many, mind you. Despite her fondness for the sword, the Keeper of Time was a mess when it came to knives. Choosing a short blade, she picked up a fluffy plaid and strode back to the bathroom. She wondered how long it would take for her to kill him should his ill humour remain. The scout certainly could fight, and fifth-century manners wouldn't hold the fort in HER flat. But the sight of him, casually settled on the tiled floor against the bathtub, sent a swell of love into her heart. No matter how infuriating, he was the only one for her. Handing him the blade, she draped his shoulders in the plaid before disappearing away.

Tristan blinked, the warmth of the material seeping through his bones. Even angry, she always looked out for him. Her heart was so big … yet, she was a ruthless fighter. She hid it well, and he wondered how many of her friends had witnessed this side of her. And the brilliant tactician. They might not even know at all … but he knew. He had seen the glint of steel in her eyes as she pierced her enemies, seen the efficiency of her moves. And he craved for her, for her touch, for her presence. It took a little practice to find a way to balance the fruit between his useless hand and his knee, but he eventually managed. Slicing his apple methodically, Tristan could only wonder if she would keep him.

And if he would let him sharpen her knives.

When he eventually came into the kitchen, Frances was cooking over a strange set of round metal appliances upon her counter. A wide shirt hung loosely around her form, casually showing off a deliciously pale shoulder. It didn't cover down past her hips like a tunic would have, and her set of pants still clung to her like she was naked. His eyes roamed freely, marvelling at the sight of a domestic Frances. She didn't hear him as he trod, bare feet, the plaid still wrapped around him. The material was so soft that he felt wrapped into a cloud. How harsh she must have found their clothes; sheets, blankets, even his tunic when she had crushed her face into his chest. A slight sniffle escaped her, and she wiped her hand over her face. Tristan frowned; was she crying? His little fairy, crying? He'd seen her cry once … as he died on the battlefield, bathing in his own blood.

Tristan let the plaid fall the ground, using his good hand to caress her bare shoulder. Frances jumped with a cry, very nearly pouring the saucepan overboard. She didn't turn around though, pretending to clean up the mess to regain her composure. But he knew better. Drawing closer, so close that he could feel the heat her upon his bare skin, he murmured gently.

— "Little fairy"

— "Yes?"

Her back was still turned, not that he minded, the curve of her neck and collarbone was a beautiful sigh. He remembered, two days past – or was it three? – the vision of her lovely cleavage in her red dress as he confronted her in the stables.

His calloussed fingers were so warm, so inviting across her skin that Frances took a step back into his chest.

— "What ails you, MY lady?"

His use of the nickname called a fleeting smile to her lips; she understood what he meant, and rested her head backward, her loose strands falling over his shoulder and down his chest.

— "I'm tired Tristan. And sorry. I could have killed you with my carelessness."

He scoffs.

— "Hardly. The scout vanquished by too much sugar, that would be a sorry tale."

Frances chuckled, sniffling once more before she let her head hang loose. His fingers traced a hot trail of fire as they gently caressed her collarbone, then he pulled her flush against him. It felt so good, to be near and share this innocent – ahem – embrace. For a long moment, Frances didn't move, relishing in his strong presence behind her. Like a shield over the hardships of the world. Would he stay by her side despite the tough times ahead? Protect her? Love her like she loved him?

— "Just … just deflating, taking it all in"

Tristan wasn't familiar with her words – nothing new here – but he thought he understood the meaning. Her mind was just crashing down, counting on him to catch her like she had for him when he woke up in hospital. On a whim, her turned the young woman around and folded her in an embrace, her cheek resting upon his upper chest, his own finding its way on the top of her head. A soft whimper echoed in the kitchen, probably Frances realising that he was barely clothed, before she circled him with her arms. The tingles her fingers sent upon his bare skin nearly distracted him from his deep musings. Nearly.

— "Do you think I will see them again?" he eventually asked.

Frances pushed her hands upon his upper chest, lifting her beautiful face to his. Her gentle chocolate eyes shone with tears, and he could read the response easily enough.

— "I am afraid not."

— "Then, it's just the two of us now," he stated.

Her fingers splayed flat upon his chest, right above the steady beating of his heart.

— "Yeah"

In his eyes shone sadness and hunger; a deep, unsated need that demanded to be fulfilled. When he captured her lips in his own, Frances though she might stop breathing altogether such was the passion of this kiss. And she responded in kind, all walls crumbled down as she clung to his magnificent body. For she had not lied, she found him utterly and entirely magnificent. Now that her hands could roam the broad expense of his back, massage the muscles that rolled under the skin, she felt like the luckiest woman alive. His lips refused to let go; hers didn't relent. Fire was spreading through her body, heat pooling in her lower back where the kitchen counter dug into her spine. She could barely breathe such was his passion, and the lack of oxygen only was a remainder of how breathless he left her. Tristan grabbed her nape, his long fingers digging into her hair, cupping her head with such strength that her knees buckled. How she wanted him, her knight in no shining armour! Frances pressed herself flush against him – thin t-shirt and all – and she felt just as surely that he, too, wanted her badly. It had been so long since she had felt desire for a man… So long.

And they both got lost into each other, lips mingling, tongues dancing, both relishing in the other's taste, the other's touch until the hissing of boiling water hitting the stove called Frances back to her boiling pasta.

— "Shit!" she exclaimed, extricating herself hastily to handle the mischievous saucepan.

Cheeks flushed, eyes slightly dazed, she turned around to take in the very handsome, very glorious naked man in her kitchen. Well, apart from the briefs that didn't conceal much anymore… His eyes were smouldering ambers, grey and gold mingled in a feral expression; the wolf claiming its mate. And curiously enough, it didn't scare her one bit, for her panting was testimony enough of how she wanted to be claimed. But they needed to eat to prevent another episode, and she lifted a trembling hand to his chest.

— "Tristan," she breathed.

— "Aye"

His voice was just a caress as he stepped forward, gathering her fingers into his good hand to kiss her knuckles sensually.

— "I think you should dress."

The shock on his features was so plain that she nearly laughed … but hurt was at bay. She couldn't let him interpret her words as rejection. Grabbing his retreating hand, she caught his gaze and conveyed her love in this simple look.

— "Don't get me wrong, I want you. But we need to eat, I don't feel so good, and I am afraid of what might happen if…"

A wolfish grin found its way upon his lips, and Frances swore she had never seen anything more arousing than the anticipation in his feral features.

— " … if I take you to bed and make you mine."

Tristan watched with amusement as Frances' cheeks flushed even more. His little fairy, all riled up about taking a turn in the sheets. It was so endearing that he stole another kiss.

— "All right, fiery lady. I will yield, for once."

And he stalked out to find the strange garments she had bought for him, fumbling a little with the elastic band and laces that were supposed to keep the breeches – pants! – in place. Needless to say, that a certain part of his anatomy certainly was not eager to be enclosed again. Patience, he coaxed his mind. Feed the body, feed the mind, then feed the wolf…

When he came back, two pieces of meat were sizzling in another saucepan. Frances used a very tiny fork with four branches, all of them incredibly carved and evenly spaced, the metal so shiny that he wondered if it was polished silver. How rich was she, his little fairy? He had often wondered if she came from a noble family after all. As she turned the meat around, the aroma filled his nostrils, and he realised how badly he was craving from something more substantial than the chocolate – however delicious – they had tasted before. This piece of meat, for one, made his stomach grumble.

It took no time for Frances to dispose it, slightly undercooked so that the centre remained reddish, and an array of whitish strands topped with red sauce on the table. She served dinner in polished plates made of … he didn't know, and gave him a spoon, a knife and another of those forks.

— "Have a seat, Tristan. Dig in before it's cold. But I must warn you, I am only a passable cook."

The scout sat, and was happy to notice that Frances settled by his side instead of across the table. Then her little foot came to rest upon his ankle, just a slight caress; a means to convey that she was here. And it felt right.

— "This looks fine to me," he said, but he had no idea what sat on his plate apart from the piece of beef.

His lost look cause Frances to chuckle, and she pointed to the dishes:

— "Beef rumsteak. This is pasta, an Italian dish made of flour, eggs and water. And the sauce is tomato, a plant that thrives in the south of France and Italy, and was discovered on another continent,"

Tristan nodded, grateful that she didn't get into details; Frances knew how much information he could take, and waited for him to ask for more if interested. Her numerous travels had probably forged her inner sense of cultural adaptation. The first mouthful of pasta and tomato sauce was interesting, to say the least. His taste buds were not used to this slightly acidic taste that was tomato, but it was counteracted by the solid take of pasta in his tongue. It was … different. As for the meat … plain delicious! There was nothing other than salt to season it, and it was the best piece of meat he'd had in … years maybe. Vanora's tavern usually served lower pieces, and they scarcely had the occasion to feast like Romans over a freshly killed cow.

Frances was eating in silence, observing his reaction as his mind took in the new taste. Then, once he got used to the food, his attention shifted to the tableware, wondering about its making. The metal was bouncy under his fingers, reflecting the light so intensely that it couldn't be silver.

— "Stainless steel. A new alloy that doesn't rust."

His eyebrow rose. A metal, so hard and so supple at the same time … and without altering. What a discovery!

— "Even if plunged in water?"

— "Nope. It is pretty common too now we master it."

Tristan almost spluttered above his plate, his mind reeling at the implications. What sword he might forge with this, the blacksmith would be mad! Perhaps he could acquire a knife, a real one, in this miraculous alloy. But then, his curiosity drove him to pick up the fork.

— "And what of this?"

Frances' eye sparkled; she was enjoying this. He then realised that she usually was the one adapting to other worlds, and not the other way around.

— "A fork. Wait a minute, I heard it wasn't used before the renaissance in France. Let me check"

He had no idea what the Renaissance was, and honestly couldn't care less as something extraordinary happened. Bouncing from her seat, Frances picked up a black square device from her desk and unplugged a cord from it, setting it upon the table. Then she opened it, like a book, but sideways so that it revealed a darkened side, and a set of letters spread upon the part that rested on the table. In that very moment, Tristan lost all sense of direction as she typed something in, and the book sprang to life. Just … literally! It started humming, and light appeared inside, and images that moved. Like the screens he had seen in the street this very morning.

— "Remember when I spoke about hitting the internet?"

— "It rings a bell."

— "This is my computer. A machine that allows me to access a reservoir of knowledge stored elsewhere in the world. I will type in a request, and select the things I want to read, and voilà."

This time, Tristan only mumbled 'voilà'. It was too much to handle. The speed with which she changed pages, the images, the little cursor that went this way and that. How could she possibly read this all in such a short span? The scout had to close his eyes a moment to gather his wits.

— "There. This page here says the fork was imported from Italy, made to eat pasta as first, and at the Renaissance period – which is about the 16th century in France – people started using it because they wore ridiculous collars and wanted to stop staining them"

Satisfied, the young woman turned to him and upon seeing his disturbed face, frowned and closed the lid. The little black square went back to being a very flat book.

— "I'm sorry, is there something wrong?"

Pride flaring – he didn't like being floored – Tristan only retorted:

— "All your knives are blunt, little fairy."

— "Yeah. They don't have the same purpose, I guess."

— "Knives are knives. If they don't cut, why do you keep them?"

Tristan tried to soften his expression to remove the edge from his words, but still, it didn't make sense. Why did she possess so many blades if only a few could cut properly? And what was it with those tiny indentations? Although it was a work of art, really, he couldn't possibly work on those. He'd have to stick to the ones she kept in the kitchen.

— "I love my knives, thank you very much. I can cut bread, and tomatoes, and be a civilised person."

Her irksome response only called a smile to his lips.

— "I'll sharpen them for you."

— "You'll find my fingers in your next salad then," she grumbled.

And then, a wicked light passed through her eyes, and Tristan suddenly regretted his lack of tact regarding her belongings. Revenge was coming … fast!

— "Speaking of sharpening pointy things, I need to change your bandage and clean your wound. I'll be right back"

Tristan could have banged his head upon the table. Sneaky, cheeky woman! She was going to make him pay for his ill temper. He finished his plate as she gathered supplies for his dressing – she was equipped like a healer! – wondering if he would have to bite his tongue when she exacted her revenge. But he couldn't be further from the truth, for Frances was loath to hurt him. Slowly, she removed the gauze that wrapped his upper arm tight. Her gestures, slow and controlled, couldn't prevent the jolt of pain that ran through his massacred limb; the Saxon's knife had gone through. Tristan gritted his teeth, gaining a worried frown from his little fairy.

— "How much does it hurt?" she asked.

— "Like hell, woman," he retorted through clenched teeth

Her frown only intensified; she knew him well enough. If he said it hurt, the pain probably was close to crippling. And it wasn't about to get better, for cleaning a wound so raw could only be immensely painful. He had to admit, though, that the stitches were neat and clean. Frances gathered some liquid from a bottle into a fluffy material – a compress – and took hold of his hand, gently grabbing his fingers. Tristan braced for the searing pain … and felt nothing more but the slight pressure and coldness of the compress against his skin. The touch hurt, all right, but nothing like the intensity he had to endure in the past whenever he had been wounded and cleaned up with alcohol.

— "What is this?" he asked, relaxing slightly.

— "Antiseptic. An efficient cleaner. I will give you something for the pain, but we will start with very low doses. I don't want you to react badly,"

Tristan nodded, wondering how many more surprises this world had in store for them. But all in all, this one was not that bad. His thoughts wandered to Dagonet; how grateful would the giant be to possess such a tool in the field rather than cauterising and pouring alcohol over gruesome wounds. For a while, Tristan's mind rested in the past while Frances bandaged his forearm tightly.

As darkness claimed the sky, the young woman switched on the artificial light to allow them to clean their armours and weapons. It was high time they took care of it; the blood was dry already, and coated his daggers. Unfortunately, both of their swords had remained on the battlefield. Their friends would probably honour them. A pang of sadness and melancholy washed through the scout as he rubbed his armour with oil. Fingers lovingly tracing the pattern of his chest plate, he wondered what would become of them all … realising that by now, they had all been dead for fifteen hundred years. For sure, he would miss them; the only few that had survived those crazy years of service. Perhaps Frances would let him use her magical book to research about King Arthur?

After a while, though, as darkness engulfed the surroundings entirely and only remained their little beacon of artificial light, Tristan wondered was he was going to do. He was free, and alive, in an unexpected world.

— "Little fairy?"

Her warm eyes lifted from the task of polishing a piece of leather.

— "Yes"

— "I take it that Knight is not a current occupation here."

— "Er. No. Unless you want to join a medieval company, and you will be disappointed."

Tristan nodded, retreating into his troubled mind until her arms came to rest upon his shoulder, circling his neck. Anyone else would have sent bells of alarm into his body, anyone else would have been pierced by a dagger, or thrown aside with a mighty punch. But not her. She was, now, his life.

— "Are you worried?"

The scout met her gaze squarely, his features opened for her to see. The testimony of his trust.

— "Aye, a little"

Frances shifted from his side, releasing his neck. Instantly, Tristan regretted the loss of her warmth; she was so soft around him that it brought peace to his heart. But then, she set the cloth aside, and took his good hand in her, intertwining their fingers sensually. Kneeling before him, her gaze searched for him anew, eyes sparkling.

— "There is enough space for the two of us here. Will you stay, with me?"

Tristan nodded, searching her eager face, wondering what it was that made his heart stutter so much. Then her features tightened, and she bit her lip nervously; the words didn't want to come out. Until she exhaled, and asked him the dreaded question.

— "I mean, will you have me by your side?"

Something fresh and happy flowed in his veins, recognising the question for what it was. Some commitment, to be by his side as long as he allowed it. A token of love, even if the words were left unsaid. Perhaps she was not ready to utter them aloud; perhaps, on the contrary, she feared rejection. How peculiar, for Tristan had known for a long time that he loved her. Didn't she know it too?

— "Aye, I would have you every day of my life."

Her expression turned to awe, and suddenly she was kissing him, shoving his armour aside to straddle his lap. Her delicious body moulded around him, her thighs so neatly enclosed in her soft cotton pants that they felt naked under his fingertips. Tristan hoisted her up against him, his good hand sliding below her loose shirt, relishing in the feel of her soft skin under his palm. Like a peach in summer, he had never felt such softness on a woman before! Her lips claimed his hungrily, her tongue caressing, coaxing, duelling with his in the most arousing of dances. Her fingers dug into his hair, her other hand on his back, tugging at his shoulders. He pulled her flush against his throbbing desire, groaning as she met him with eagerness. The last piece of conscience struggled do not to take her on the sofa. Her hands were everywhere, and very soon, his t-shirt was discarded. Hers followed in a heartbeat, exposing her pale flesh to his caresses. But he wanted more … more of her, and certainly, less clothing.

When at last they parted, both of them panting, a mischievous smile quirked her lips upwards.

— "Are you sure your heart can sustain such a strenuous activity?"

The wolfish grin was back, and Tristan made his point by rolling his hips upwards. Frances' sharp intake of breath only confirmed his success.

— "Nothing strenuous about that, little fairy."

And thus, they both decided that it was past bedtime, and left the living room and its huge glass doors to retreat in the bedroom. It was high time, for them, to become intimately bound, and Frances discovered a passionate, animalistic man that had no qualms about stating his claim. She loved every moment of it; from the most tender of caresses to the more energetic moments. He left her breathless countless times this night, and when morning came, and she awoke wrapped into his arms, Frances was sure that her neighbours hated her!


	10. Chapter 8 - Alive - Fourth part

**_So … a little time had passed now they're a couple. Let's see how Tristan is faring in the 21st century, shall we? So, this is a rather long chapter, that I hope you will enjoy. I wasn't so much into it at first, but it grew on me. Second to last, for I think this nice adventure shall be over in a chapter. Phew. That was the hell of a variation !_**

When Frances called 'Hey I'm back' this evening, Tristan was nowhere to be found. It wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last either that he went exploring on his own. Over the past weeks, he had become acquainted with modern life in an incredible fit of adaptability. Granted, he would ever be the fifth century scout; his morals wouldn't be swayed, not his habits to save food and material. At the time, everything was scarce, and good tools difficult to come by. Things were built to last… unlike today. The first pair of pants had been torn within two weeks; not strong enough to handle a scout's little walk in the forest. As the second and the third. Helpless, Frances was tearing her hair out to find something that could resist climbing trees, swarming in the bushes and, all in all, Trisan's energy.

— "Your fabric is worthless," he said. "Mine were heavy leather, they wouldn't tear like this."

— "I'm sorry, Tristan. Good leather pants today… I just can't afford it, and I'm afraid they would be too fragile anyway. How did you fix it after a skirmish?"

He regarded her strangely, baffled by her question.

— "Thread and needle. If I couldn't fix it myself, I went to the seamstress. Sometimes, she got the leather from it to make new ones. Can't you do it with your machine?"

Her tongue had darted over her lips – lips he kissed thoroughly before releasing her with a twinkle in his eyes; that was a challenge. A real, big challenge. She had never sewed anything for another one. Perhaps now was the time to try her hand at something useful. So she had bought some heavy cloth, a cotton serge so thick that she doubted it could tear. Or so she thought. And got to work on a pair of pants for him. It took a few adjustments, fortunately, her model was more than willing to stay put for the fittings. Damn, he was sexy as hell with only the pants on and no shirt! Eventually, the simple pair made him happy, and she sprayed it with a waterproofing coating. They were plain, devoid of adornments except for two pockets she had added at the back. Just a cord to adjust it, and period. She just wasn't skilled enough to make it better.

The triple seam had rendered it unkillable, and Tristan never left without his pair of favourite pants now. Still sexy as hell, even if he kept a t-shirt on to go out. Still, the style made him stand out even mor; he didn't care about the looks he received in the street. Tristan was used to getting stared at. And apart from grilling his microwave oven to a crisp (he had forgotten that aluminium cases would go boom), plugging a thousand things on the same electrical cord and shrinking a few of her t-shirts in the washing machine, he was getting the hang of modern appliances. Frances, she still was floored by his capacity to adapt. She couldn't help but feel guilty, sometimes, to see that she called forth memories of the first time he was pulled away from his home and habits. But Tristan just took it in stride. Her decision had saved his life, not enslaved him in the service of another.

His first action, as a modern man, had been to trim his beard a little. His reflection in the mirror thanked him for that. It now was a neat beard … for a man with a messy mane of hair. The scissors, though, had thrown him in fits of wonder. He had only seen spring scissors of rough iron by his time, and he admired the neatness and precision of her blades. Not that he would accept to cut his hair. For the moment, the warrior braids always found a spot in his mane. Frances didn't care, she loved him just the way he was. It didn't help the looks, though.

The young woman unloaded her school bag on the table, her mind filled with fluid mechanics, assignments and magmatic chamber crystals. What would Tristan say about Marion's very insistent proposal to study at her place next Thursday afternoon? She had, after all, made her point quite thoroughly. Her flat sat just in between Will and her own place, and contrary to those students' rooms, there was quite some space to create the chronological strip they were supposed to make. Their common assignment was due next week … and she knew Marion was fishing for information; William as well. For the past weeks, she'd been acting strange. Less indifferent, maybe. More smiles, but more frowns as well, coming from this new responsibility. And the love bite on her neck hadn't passed unnoticed. Perhaps it was time to talk to her friends.

Was her knight tamed enough to fit into society? Would he be approachable? Frances sighed; she had no idea how such a moment could work out. And the questions she would face afterwards… Phew.

Her eyes caught a piece of paper on the table, a few sentences thrown over it by an unsteady hand. Writing was still difficult for Tristan, especially since his arm wasn't fully healed. But he was starting to recover the use of his fingers; he had found exercises on the internet so strengthen his grip. Tristan, surfing the web… that was a strange sight indeed ! Needless to say, that the darts target, luckily made of heavy cork, did have a few holes. Regaining the use of his right arm also meant recovering his full aim with the dagger. Not that she complained; Frances was always in awe of his talent when it came to throwing knives. She had never forgotten Gawain's disgruntled face when he literally carved the tip of his blade into the handle of his. Tristan had wanted to teach her. Frances' insistence that she was dangerous with a knife, not enemy-wise, was met by a wall of smugness. Tristan was adamant she could learn … for the first time since forever, he had caved in less than two hours later, asking she to never touch a knife again.

The woman smiled at the memory. He was no easy man, a little rough on the edges and easily riled up. But what a man! Hers…

The young woman picked up the note he had left, her eyes quickly roaming over it.

"Little fairy. I will be gone for some time, don't expect me this evening, nor the next. I am scouting the forest of Haye. Be safe. Tristan."

Her hands slammed on the table. What the fucking hell ‼! She really needed to get him cell phone.

The flames gently glowed in the darkening sky, giving him enough light to peel his apple in peace. It had been a long trek to find a remote spot to rest; those woods had been massacred with roads and paths. Old trees were long gone… cut down to build furniture and such. Tristan longed for the ancestral woods of Briton, how weird; he never thought he would miss this place. All in all, it wasn't so far away from Frances's flat, fewer than four leagues in a straight line. The detailed maps of the region were such a great tool for scouting. Albeit Tristan always roughly knew where he was, those maps showed the path, the cliffs, rivers and even some houses such was their precision. Now that he knew how to read it – Frances had been a good teacher; she loved her maps dearly – he could roam the countryside unnoticed. And it was much more difficult than in the fifth century, even with the lack of woads. People were everywhere. Even here, at the top of the cliff, hidden in an alcove, he had heard some youth hanging around.

He'd given them his most impressive glare; they had run away, half drunk, to their cars. Tristan now watched the last red hues of the sky turn to dark blue. Frances would probably love this spot. Perhaps he could take her there this summer, gather a nice set of branches and leaves for them to sleep in. Her apartment was so stifling sometimes, he wondered how she handled it. The noise, the smell, the presence of others everywhere around them. He that always thought his little fairy a creature of the wild. For he had seen how happy she was in the outdoors, the sun on her face, the wind messing up her long reddish hair… Yes, she would love that spot, high up upon the cliff, overlooking the meanders of the Moselle River.

For the moment though, she was too ensconced in the difficult work of her school. Her studies didn't make much sense to him. Worse, they drained her. Only one year left, she said, them it would be over. Sometimes, it felt like another version of his service to Rome, another enslavement. The last time he had heard of Pythagoras was when Arthur had hired a preceptor for them all. Fifteen years ago, at least. But she dealt with that like it was basic knowledge. And perhaps in her world, it was, for when she tried to tell him about the theories she had to learn … well, it sent his mind reeling. Physics, astronomy, advanced chemistry, foreign languages. Tristan didn't car much about the composition of the earth, or the fact that it was round and not flat. It didn't change his every day life. He didn't understand how she could grasp all those concepts, let alone learn them. And what for? To become an engineer? And engineer of what actually?

She had told him about unemployment and such, that she needed to make money to sustain them. Tristan just … accepted it. His little fairy was a brainiac. She spoke four languages, at least, with which she helped him find some information on Sarmatia. French, she said, was a secondary language compared to English. So when he found a webpage in English, he just stored it for her to translate. Now, he knew more or less how to use that blasted machine. Or at least, how to go to the internet. How many hours had he spent, gauging his eyes out, looking for information on the Roman empire and its ties to Sarmatia? There was just so much to understand, the big picture laid at his feet, that is overwhelmed him.

He didn't regret it, for now he knew. He knew that his people were of Iranian descent, but closer to the Mongol culture of the steppes nowadays. He also knew that the Yazygues were being overwhelmed by the Huns when he had left for Rome. Had he stayed, he might very well be in the ground now beside the rest of his tribe. Sarmatia, strangely, was at the end of its reign in 476 AD. Just like the Roman empire. And as they fell to the Hun's raids, so did Rome. A meager consolation. But the past was the past. And now, his past was … way past! Fifteen hundred years past, considered history. He, with his memories and knowledge, was considered history. No one on the planet spoke Latin as well as he did … how ironic when he used to speak it with a thick accent of the Sarmatian descent.

Another slice of apple was popped into his mouth, the sweet taste coating his tongue. Apples came in all sorts of sizes and taste. Some he loved, like this 'Pink lady' – not unlike Frances' lips – others he dismissed for being too acidic, like the 'Granny smith'. So much to learn. He had soon realised that a lifetime wouldn't be enough to master it all. For sure, Frances had been in school ever since her third year of life, and was still learning. With the knowledge accumulated over the years, she could spend her whole life studying and would never come close to a man like Pelagius had been in his time. Where did wisdom fit in this swarming sea of knowledge? When had people lost all sense of community, creating rules to determine right from wrong? This, to him, was the greatest loss.

But he was a man of action, a scout. Compared to those people and their knowledge, he didn't feel inferior. His talent resided elsewhere. And albeit it was useless in Frances' world – those bunch of people would all die in the fifth century conditions – it didn't undermine his worth. Tristan knew of his own value. The looks Frances gave him, not just only in bed, but in everyday life, that was worth the world. She made him feel wanted, accepted, cherished. Every time her light chocolate eyes smiled at him, he felt he had found his place. Beside her. And the food was good !

The third slice of apple disappeared between his teeth, and he sucked at the juice before munching it. A familial gesture that brought him solace whenever he felt lost. The knife in his hand came from a shop specialised in cutlery of all sorts. A chuckle escaped him as he remembered the man's face.

— _"Do you have a target so I can check the balance?"_

_Wide green eyes looked at him as if he's grown a second head._

— "_I beg your pardon, sir?"_

— _"Something he could throw the knife in?" Frances interjected. "Like a target for darts, or anything alike."_

_The guy suddenly plucked his glasses and started cleaning them furiously. A nervous gesture that Tristan didn't understand; his questions were simple. Nothing to fuss about, unless the man knew his knives to be of poor quality._

— _"Erm. No. We don't throw our knives"_

— _"Then how can you be sure the balance is right?" he asked, baffled._

_To this, the vendor actually brightened. Visibly he knew the answer to that question._

— _"We set it on the finger, like this."_

_Tristan snorted, picking the knife back from the man's finger in a swift gesture that startled him._

— _"Won't tell you if sways left or right when you throw it in another man's throat."_

_Frances suddenly coughed, nudging his side discreetly._

— _"Not that's it a standard occupation, right Tristan?"_

_The scout froze. Damn, habits died hard._

— _"Right."_

Sometimes, he saw the awkwardness of his comments, and the unease he caused even if he didn't always understand it. Then Frances would explain – after trying to salvage the situation – and he would still not understand why people took offence over such trivial things. But Frances… she didn't get pissed at him for being different and having his own views. Just like that day, in the tavern, when she had asked not to kill in her name. He had left her in a fit of anger, worried for her well-being. But she never held rancour at him for it, because it was just the way he was and she accepted him. He wondered how long she would last, being the buffer between him and the world. Perhaps he ought to consider this crazy world's point of view, only to blend in. No need to change the core, the façade would be enough.

Frances had always been weird. Not in the sense people thought, of course, not that kind of weird. She wasn't a freak, nor the snob her schoolmates called her. She was just … distant, kind of indifferent to things people her age would find important. She didn't speak of boyfriends, mentioned her family often, but kept to herself most of the time. School things such as assignments and classes, she did in silence. She didn't speak to many others, only to her and Will. Both of them because they had been obstinate enough to keep her in the loop. In her eyes, she could see that Frances was grateful for their presence. Still, she kept them at arm's length.

Deep down, Marion knew that Frances had so many secrets that a government agent could borrow some. She didn't mind much; everybody was entitled to his private life. Still, she recognised pain when she saw it, and she knew that her heart was in shambles. Her family seemed proper enough, so it could only be a trauma, or a heartache. Something wrong with an ex-boyfriend maybe? So when she noticed a new spring in her friend's step, the curious – caring? – and observant woman grew suspicious at once. Something had changed, and she pushed and pushed until Frances relented and accepted they work their assignment in her place. Her resistance only fed her doubts. what would they find in her apartment ? For she seemed happier, and very, very tired as well. Weird, how from one day to the other, her complexion had paled a notch.

The answer was incredibly dull. Nothing. As they worked through this geological strip, they were supposed to finish next week, Marion couldn't help but be disappointed. There was nothing new in Frances' apartment, nothing that stood out and could explain her better mood. Said mood, for instance, had quite gone off the window. To say that she was fidgety and short-tempered was an understatement. Tea didn't even lift her mood, and the afternoon was spent slaving over a stratigraphic column that seemed to make no sense, until William eventually found out that it had been somewhat reverted and truncated in the middle due to a tectonic event, and then everything started to clear up.

— "Phew!" Marion said. "Good job for finding the details, it could have taken up some time if we had not."

The student bowed dramatically.

— "What can I say, thank you ladies!"

— "She didn't thank you yet," quipped Marion while Frances rolled her eyes.

William only grinned, his blue eyes searching for his friend's gaze.

— "It's all in the eyes."

Light brown hair, chubby face, William was one of these people that always seemed happy. The perfect counterpart to Frances who tended to be a tad negative. And sometimes it brightened her. Other times, Marion could just see the way she gritted her teeth and tensed her jaw to keep from scolding him. But all in all, their strange trio seemed to work.

The front door suddenly opened and Frances darted from her seat, hiding most of the newcomer from view. From her spot on the sofa, Marion could only spot the top of his head, graced with medium length brownish hair that fell over high cheekbones. Her gaze met his, and she had to turn away instantly such was the intensity of his amber eyes. A shiver ran up her spine as she tried to eavesdrop on the hushed voices.

— " … a long time…"

— "I wasn't far, little fairy."

The silk of his voice carried further than Frances.

— " … so worried…"

— "Don't fret, women. I can take care of myself."

Well, that was a peculiar way to call your girlfriend… From the corner of her eyes, Marion barely saw Frances stand on her tip toes, probably kissing the man before reaching for his face.

— "…"

— "I fancied a haircut."

Silence.

— " … nice," came her whispered voice, slightly in awe.

— "I'm glad you like it. Who are your friends?"

— "Schoolmates. Since you are finally here, you might as well get to know each other. I couldn't possibly warn you… we only decided on Tuesday evening."

Her tone was sharp, pissed even, but the man didn't react. They just left the alcove of the entrance to penetrate into the living room. Frances seemed ill at ease; far from displaying the typical moonstruck lovesick behaviour a girl should have when paired with such an individual. For her boyfriend was older, his poise impeccable, and quite a stunning specimen. High cheekbones tattooed with two sets of tribal symbols, magnetic presence, clothing that bordered on medieval but revealed enough to show that he was packed with muscles. A very fine specimen of a man … dangerous even. Probably a beast in bed. Damn ! There was something absolutely otherworldly about that guy, like the ones you could find in medieval fairs with a sword in hand. A knight.

Not that Frances was plain, far from it. She complimented him nicely. With her long hair and beautiful features, she was rather sought after … a middle age princess. William himself had given it a go on their first year… unsuccessfully. None of the guys ever quite managed to understand why they didn't stir a spark in their colleague. But if Frances' type was this kind of man, then no wonder she wasn't interested in school boys. The knight presented his hand to William to shake it but kept his distance from her with an interrogative look at Frances.

— "I'm Tristan. Nice to meet you"

The combination of his accent and the smooth silk of his voice was mesmerising and she almost forgot to answer him.

— "Er, Marion. Likewise. Frances doesn't speak about her boyfriend."

Tristan's eyebrows rose at the appellation, but he didn't answer. It made her self-conscious. Somehow, to call him a boy, or even a friend. For it was hardly an understatement; those two had a loaded history. Seeing that Tristan wasn't forthcoming with an explanation, Frances butted in.

— "Tristan is … from Mongolia. He grew up in the plains so he is still learning about… France, and modernity, I guess."

William's eyes almost budged out of his skull and Marion swore he refrained from bouncing up and down.

— "Wow. Your French is impeccable. And this is so great! I so badly would like to hear about your tribe and culture."

But Frances interrupted them before they could even start conversing.

— "Yeah. Maybe once we are finished with this assignment, we can sit down and chat, right?"

William remained unfazed; somehow, he was impervious to their friend's moods and glares, as if he knew the she would never put her threats to execution.

— "Right. Stratigraphic sequence, coming up!"

And while Tristan disappeared into the bedroom and the shower started to run Frances plumped down beside her with a sigh. She seemed as angry as she was relieved. Marion nudged her shoulder playfully.

— "So, how long did you intend to keep him from us?"

Frances groaned, passing her hand over her tired face. Marion frowned; she had dismissed the dark circles under her eyes for the strain of school, but now another explanation seemed to be forthcoming. Lack of sleep ?

— "Don't even start. It is complicated enough as it is."

— "What? You got yourself a yummy great piece of candy and don't want to share?"

This time, the young woman chuckled.

— "I just don't want to overwhelm him with too much stuff at once. They still live without electricity and use horses in his tribe. This place … it's a lot to take in"

William settled in front of the coffee table once more.

— "How did you two meet?" he asked.

— "In a forest. Now get back to work" was her stern reply.

As it was, Tristan was a very silent man doubled with a pretty good cook. As they worked, he went to and fro, filling the room with the delicious smell of roasting onions and various vegetables. She didn't know if he lived there or spent much time in Frances' kitchen, either way she was the hell of a lucky woman. His presence should have made him impossible to ignore, but once or twice, Marion realised that he had moved to the other room, or returned so stealthily that she didn't hear him. His eyes always lingered on Frances when she wasn't looking. Deep, brown eyes that wanted to convey so much, but didn't say any of it. Their relationship was carved upon a stone dumped at the bottom of a lake.

At last, they wrapped up the stratigraphic strip with a sigh, and Tristan announced proudly that dinner would be about in a moment. Frances stood, stretching like a cat that woke up from a nice nap, and trod to her man to lay a hand upon his forearm.

— "Thank you," she said, "You didn't have to but it is very welcome."

— "Anything for you, little fairy"

The young woman gave him a loaded look that promised … retribution? For what exactly, Marion couldn't possibly guess. They ate a delicious gratin this evening, a far cry from the standard's student pasta while William and herself bombarded Tristan with questions. Sometimes, he referred to Frances, as if he didn't quite know how to respond. As for the rest, he treated them with short, precise answers that tended to close the subject rather than open it. There was no hostility in his tone, but both she and William had trouble continuing their line of questioning whenever he tried to feed their curiosity. A quiet man, with a very secretive edge.

— "So what's with the nickname?" Will asked, curious. "Little fairy"

Tristan and Frances shared a loaded look, and Marion knew instantly that they wouldn't divulge the truth.

— "We met in a forest, remember?"

At if it explained it all. But when she said no more, Marion interjected her two cents.

— "And?"

Tristan's features were carefully neutral, but his eyes twinkled with a memory he wasn't ready to share. Still, he tried to convey his feelings to his tablemates.

— "She appeared out of nowhere, and she looked like a fairy. But she is so small, you see."

Frances scoffed, ready to swat his right arm and refraining at the very last moment with a horrified look. Instead, she grabbed his fingers and squeezed them.

— "Hardly, it's just that you are so damn tall."

He squeezed back. And there would be no more to be heard about their meeting. Marion wondered about the silent communication. The slight touches, here and there, clearly showed they were a couple. Still, every one of their moves towards each other was so controlled, so carefully through off that the intensity of their relationship permeated the very air. As if they relished in each other's presence, but tried to keep it secret at the same time. It was… weird. Frances cleared the dishes with her man in tow, leaving William and herself at the table, sharing a glance of curiosity. Then her schoolmate spotted the cork target and exclaimed.

— "Hey. About a game of darts before we leave?"

Something suddenly banged on the granite counter, escaping Frances' hands. Marion jumped in the air, startled; her friend wasn't so tense usually. Clearly something was bothering her and she sighed.

— "I need a drink if we play. Fancy a rum anyone?"

Several nods of approval and a few glasses later, the game of darts was on. Tristan grimaced as he tasted the rum, his sour face so out of place that Marion laughed.

— "Woman drink?" she asked.

— "Gods. There's too much sugar in this alcohol."

A glimpse of panic passed into Frances' eye as she plucked the glass from his hands.

— "I'll get you a beer if you prefer. I might have some left"

Tristan's features returned to the carefully blank expression he harboured behind the loose strands framing his face while Frances got into the closet to check on her stock.

— "Beer?" he called out, leaning against the frame.

— "Ale."

— "Aye, ale would do."

And Marion couldn't help but notice that, despite the fact that Tristan didn't seem to know what beer was, his manner of speech sometimes bordered on medieval. One mystery to add to the man, for despite their thorough questioning, his origins and past remained rather obscure. Especially the reasons for his coming here…and the ceremony that gave him him his tattoos. Frances handed her boyfriend a bottle of amber-coloured beer that he tried to uncork. Pain suddenly flooded his features with a grunt and Frances was by his side in an instant, her hand slightly brushing his forearm.

— "Oh no! Don't … not with your hands. It needs a tool to be opened."

Fishing the opener out of its drawer, she uncorked the beer and gestured for him to take a swig from the bottle itself. Marion inwardly startled; who, in this world, had never drunk a beer? Except for Frances who hated the taste. Tristan moulded his lips over the neck and took a tentative mouthful, his tongue passing over his lower lip in an attempt to characterise the taste. She had to admit that this man was mesmerising, his slow moves too sensual for a hormonal teenager. Thank God she was an adult now. Then he nodded with a satisfied expression, earning a full bloom smile from Frances.

— "Right. The game is on," she said.

Marion quirked her eyebrow in a playful manner; she was rather good at darts.

— "Should we team up? Women against men?"

Frances shook her head.

— "I do not ever play against my man, Marion. We do not stand a chance."

Marion smiled; 'My man.' That fit better than a 'boyfriend'.

— "Defeatist much?"

The young woman shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. As if she had lived through this situation a hundred times before.

— "Nope. Realistic at best"

And for sure, the game was slightly boring, for Tristan's darts just tended to end up in the middle ring. Will couldn't be happier; no matter where his landed, victory was assured. It was frustrating, to see Tristan launch the darts without a care in the world, his attention concentrated on his partner as they conversed a little more freely. She saw Frances' cheeks redden from the alcohol, her eyes travelling more often than not to the magnetic man that still managed to make himself scarce at the back of the room despite his crazy skills. As if landing any of his darts dead centre wasn't enough, he had to launch them from afar as well.

— "Want an apple, beloved?" Frances asked.

Tristan lifted a faint eyebrow then fished a pinkish apple from below the kitchen counter, retrieving a big knife from his belt to slice at the fruit methodically. Marion blinked; a knife stowed at his belt? How very … medieval. Let alone the 'beloved' nickname which was outdated at best. The man's painfully slow movement nearly entranced her as she watched his long fingers work the fruit in even slices to pop them into his mouth, held by the blade.

— "Want one, Marion?"

— "Uh?"

Frances' eyes twinkled, knowing exactly what was going on. So she turned back to the game, and exhaled slowly before her last throw. Her dart landed dead centre eliciting a whoop of delight at her talent. An instant later, a blade passed over her shoulder, embedding itself in the dart and cleaving in in two pieces. Shocked, Marion could only protest.

— "Hey!"

Tristan's lips were slightly quirked, partially hidden in his short beard.

— "Sorry, needed the space to land mine," he casually said.

William burst out laughing while Frances tried to stifle her giggles. Then the insufferable man retrieved his freaking knife from the target, and stole a searing kiss on the way, the blade returned to the sheath at his waist with a practised gesture.

— "You are a scheming woman, little fairy," he said, his eyes flashing from amusement.

— "Hardly," she scoffed. "You cheated."

A grunt only answered that statement, and so the game wrapped up.

Frances crashed on the sofa, her nerves frazzled. After two full nights of absence, Tristan had to choose THIS very moment to come home. No doubt Will and Marion would have plenty to talk about…

— "Well, that went well…", she said.

And surprisingly, it had gone better than expected. Despite the barrage of questions that had been answered with more or less consistency, Tristan's behaviour had been rather passable for a man of the steppes. Even with his little stunt with the throwing knife; it could easily pass for a tribal habit.

— "Ashamed of me, little fairy?"

The young woman gaped at her man as he sat beside her, his posture tense.

— "Are you serious?"

Tristan nodded, his face carefully neutral. Frances leapt from her seat, pacing back and forth in a fit of angst.

— "How can you say that? How can you even think that?"

— "You didn't want your friends to meet me."

The young woman froze. So this is what it looked like from the outside. Kneeling at Tristan's feet, she suddenly claimed both of his hands and took a deep breath.

— "Listen. My heart swells with pride every time I realise you are still there, in my pitiful life, stuck in this prison of a flat."

His ire didn't let the words touch his heart; he stowed them away for later … for a moment when he could consider that she was proud of having him by her side. Something … he didn't know he deserved. Had the knights been proud that he was their brother, or ashamed of his bloodlust? Galahad had made his opinion clear often enough, and the rest just never said anything. Was it acceptance, or rejection?

— "You are still hiding me," he grumbled.

This time, Frances had had enough and she huffed in annoyance, springing to her feet.

— "No, daft man! Damn it, I am just trying to give you time to adapt. And you … you go gallivanting about, for two days, to God knows where without even letting me know. I was worried sick ‼!".

Now he was being fed up at being yelled at, and he stood deliberately slowly, taking a step towards Frances to that he towered over her. She lifted her head to his, her gaze thunderous, ready to crumple his t-shirt in her fist and headbutt him.

— "I'm a scout, Frances. You must stop coddling me."

— "This world is not the same as you once knew … and you are wounded," she countered.

Worry and anger oozed out of her chocolate orbs, begging for him to hear her plea. But Tristan needed to make his point; he needed the practical, level-headed Keeper of Time and not a secondary mother. Thus, he spoke the longest tirade of the last fifteen years.

— "I adapted to you, I adapted to the Roman empire stealing me from my tribe, I took a three-month trip on horseback, and adapted to fifteen years of killing. I can handle a few of your friends and your danger free world"

His deliberate low tone sipped through her façade, dissolving the anger until her walls crumbled. She reached for him tentatively, her fingers sliding across his waist until her head rested on his chest.

— "All right, all right. I may have overreacted. I just… I just see you sprawled on this floor when you heart stopped… I am just afraid to lose you, I am afraid it will stop beating and I am not here to start it anew."

And Tristan embraced her, his body relaxing in the hug. Her admission warmed his heart; he loved that about her, that she could look inside of her mind and accept whenever she was wrong. Her earnestness was refreshing.

— "I do not intend to lose my blood again. My heart is sturdy, and it is yours."

Her chest swelled with love, and she tightened her hold over his waist.

— "I know and… I know"

— "Then I can get some of this delicious ale now, right?"

Frances chuckled against his chest, ashamed that she had kept him away from alcohol for such a long time, a slave to her fears. He was right, she had been coddling him like a child, walking on eggshells every time she introduced something new. But Tristan was this intense, solid man that needed a woman, not a mother. As for his heart … she knew how strong it was, only because he reminded her every night.

— "About the hair … you didn't have to. But you look good, it suits you"

— "Only good?" he teased.

Frances lifted her head from his chest, her eyes taking in his new mid-length haircut. With her cheeks flushed from alcohol, he wanted nothing more than undress her and…

— "Incredibly dashing, beloved"

His lips descended upon hers, tasting the sweet note of rum upon her breath as he explored her mouth. The young woman whimpered, winding herself around him as she returned his searing kiss, her fingers playing with his now slightly exposed nape. When at last they broke apart, they were both panting.

— "Let's move from this place," he suggested. "This apartment"

Her eyebrows rose upon her forehead, a slight frown marring her feature. She was probably considering the feasibility of his proposal regarding the complicated rules of her world. Then he pressed his case.

— "I know the weight of memories, little fairy. My room at Hadrian's wall was so smothering that I sometimes slept outside,"

Frances nodded. This is what he had done, rekindling his link to nature because he felt caged.

— "Anything you had in mind?"

— "I found a nice spot in the forest that I want to show you. Something close?"

Her face brightened. Love, admiration and want written plainly upon her features. He loved this about her; she never wore a mask with him.

— "Aye. Let us move beloved, and make a new life."


	11. Chapter 9 - Alive - Fifth Part

**_To Koba: aaaah, the pants. My husband rips his so often; I eventually made him one out of ladies underwear pattern! It wasn't so difficult, and he's built just like Mads, only 4 inches smaller. It's easy to make men's pants, they don't have the waist to hips curve and such. So I thought if I can do it, Frances can _****_?_**

**_Good catch with Hannibal… Easter egg hehe. _**

**_Anyway, I finally managed to escape my writer's block regarding this one and I hope you will like the conclusion. I'm glad because I got two other stories stored and ready to be posted after this one since I was stuck for so long._**

— "I never thought… Not even our fifteen years of service comes close to this hell."

Frances nodded, biting her lower lip.

— "Didn't you know?"

— "I read about it. But it is not the same to see it."

Movies had such a strong effect on Tristan, and she had postponed, for many years, war-related ones to preserve his sanity. Too overprotective? Maybe. Maybe not. True, the knight had gone a long way from his past self in the four years they had been together. Aside from seeing a psychiatrist to put words on the post-traumatic stress disorder he suffered from, the scout had adapted. More or less. Today, he worked in a stud farm – the owner couldn't believe his luck to have found a man so gifted with horses – performing as a fencing instructor and demonstrator in a medieval company as a side dish. It didn't make so much money, but joined with Frances' income as a PhD student, it was enough to live properly and leave some scouting time.

Tristan being mostly silent had solved many problems for he always shut his mouth whenever a new concept came his way, sending hums and grunts of assent until Frances could explain it to him. They used the excuse of his origins to bypass many awkward moments, especially with her family and friends who tried hard to accept his weirdness. Mostly. Deep down, she knew her parents were still afraid of him. After all, she had inherited her intuition from them, and her father, mostly, always looked at Tristan with insistence. What he saw was never voiced; he probably was satisfied that the knight would protect his daughter to the death.

Being from Mongolia was a nice pretext for not knowing what a credit card was, or for ignoring a bunch of exotic fruits he'd never tasted before. Tristan had taken a liking to pineapple, its acidic notes balancing perfectly the fruity ones. Running water and hot showers were a nice perk as well, especially when Frances joined him… He would never forget his first warm shower in hospital.

Usually, reminding people of his tribes' habits did the trick… Especially when he swore in Sarmatian. Other issues were more difficult to bypass, such as cars. Being the focused man he was, Tristan learnt how to drive rather easily. And after a little while, he became an incredibly skilled driver. She should have seen it coming; as a scout, Tristan was aware of everything that went on around him, from the slightest bird ruffling its feathers to the change in the wind. Driving wasn't so far-fetched; it took focus and attention, reflexes and knowledge of the machine. One Tristan had mastered that last bit, he simply excelled at driving.

It gave his brothers an opportunity to buy him rounds on tracks for his birthday, knowing Frances would eat her nails raw at the sight. Phew. What a weird life.

And today, she had relented in showing him 'Joyeux Noël', the movie about World War I.

— "So this is the movie that inspired the Ave Maria you sang for us."

Frances hummed, her warm chocolate eyes searching his, wondering what went into this thick skull of his. For how much as she loved him, she had to admit that he was much less flexible than she was. Something to do with growing up in modern society and dealing with many solicitations at once. The simple gleam of uncertainty in his eyes told her he was shaken. Tristan had seen war, been in the thick of it for fifteen years of his life. Yet, he couldn't fathom what the trenches could be like.

— "This world is crazy," he breathed, reclining on the sofa as his eyes watched the ceiling.

His favourite line repeated five to ten times a day. And she couldn't honestly contradict him; this world truly had lost sight of the most important things in life. Knowing he would mull on the movie and the reality of World War I, Frances claimed his shoulder and rested her eyes, basking in his strong presence. Even on bad days, where Tristan threw a fit about their modern civilisation being as depraved as Romans – he'd seen 'Fifty shades of Grey', she hadn't – she couldn't regret saving his life. His beating heart was a gift she cherished every single moment. It was worth abiding by the corrupted rules of this world just to keep him by her side; the only argument that worked whenever they fought about modern laws he refused to acknowledge. Any slip of his and they would be separated by a sejour in jail; Tristan simply could not allow it. So he kept his temper in check, no matter how tempting it was sometimes to beat people within an inch of their lives; like this teacher at school who kept harassing Frances, or that other student who wanted to know what colour her underwear was.

So what? He had not killed him, but crushed his hand in a hearty welcome one day, and gave him such a glare that the man was frightened out of his wits.

Tristan swallowed, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

— "When we fought the Saxons, at least we knew why."

His smooth voice echoed deep in his chest and Frances slid a hand to his neck, feeling the slight pulse under her fingers. She understood what he meant; World War I was a game of politicians who sent thousands of soldiers to their death regardless of their will to fight. For nor French, nor English, nor Scottish, Americans or Germans wanted to fight. It had been a useless massacre, and this movie, 'Joyeux Noel', only emphasised the fact that politics had made enemies out of friends. The biggest waste of European history. Funny how it echoed with their last alliance with the Picts on Badon Hill.

— "Yes. But you didn't want to fight the Woads, right?"

— "No, not at first. Then they killed our own, and I wanted all of them to die."

It was Frances' turn to mull over his statement, her fingers caressing the tips of his hair as they fell upon his nape. In modern society, Tristan claiming his hatred for people who had done nothing more than defend their land was frowned upon. Let alone stating how he thrived to plunge his sword into their neck… They couldn't understand what he had been through, seeing his cousin, his brothers die at the hands of the blue devils. There were very few people, today, who could relate to him. Violence and death were scarce in this modern world.

— "You sang it better."

The young woman nearly purred at the sound of his voice so close to her ear.

— "The Ave Maria?"

— "Yes. I loved it more when it was you."

Frances snorted in disbelief, the unladylike noise making his lips quirk slightly.

— "Nathalie Dessay is THE soprano, she's so talented, I cry every time I hear her interpretation. I can never compare"

Tristan dragged his woman to his lap, settling her thighs on either side of his hips. His smouldering gaze studied her as one of his hands caressed her silky hair.

— "It's about the feeling, nor the voice."

Her eyebrows came together before she nodded.

— "It's probably about the circumstances I guess. We were cold, and tired, and those people had been tortured by the despicable Roman. We needed it more than ever"

Tristan's faint eyebrows furrowed in a mock glare.

— "You're stubborn, woman. I tell you: you sing it better."

— "And I…"

Her rant was interrupted by a set of delicious lips capturing hers, and she smiled into the kiss. Smart man, he always knew how to end an argument. Still, in the back of her mind, she couldn't shake the feeling that he might be biased concerning this song. Perhaps because he loved her … then she couldn't think anymore as Tristan puller her flush against him, and started shedding her clothes. Who cared about the Ave Maria?

Half an hour later, Frances was slumbering in her bed, a warm body close to hers, strong hands tracing the muscles of her back gently.

— "We need to oil the armours for the tournament next week."

And Frances swore then even if he quoted Nietzsche, she would still find his voice beautiful. The accent lingered, caressing her ears as his hands trailed her skin, smooth tones soft as silk. She hummed her assent, a little lost in his touch, hoping he would speak more.

— "They'd better be good this time," Tristan growled as he gripped her waist to pull her against him.

Frances blinked, finding that her brain had trouble functioning whenever bare skin was concerned. Tristan's flesh made her body hum; she could never have enough of him. When his words registered in her brain, the young woman frowned.

— "You know you're a god to them."

Tristan groaned, letting his had fall upon the mattress in annoyance. This medieval company that employed him to teach fencing had no idea about the bunch of idiots that tried to pick up a sword. It was all a game for them, an attempt to get back in time and find a part of themselves they might have lost on the way. They didn't realise what life could be like in the past. Only a few of them could handle his training, even less throw daggers and shoot a bow properly. All weaklings! And he instructed them to the best of his abilities, his ill temper reigned at best when his charges trampled the ground like a charge of elephants. A stern teacher, keeping to himself his scathing remarks. Curiously, the mysterious persona gained him even more admirers. Frances always laughed whenever she saw guys and girls alike looking at him like lost puppies.

— "I don't care about being a god. I care about skill and dedication."

— "They have a life aside from this, Tristan. They work, they fit in modern society."

And as much as he knew she was right, Tristan couldn't fathom how people would want to regress a thousand years and find it amusing.

— "I don't do this for fun, little fairy. The Dark Ages were nothing close to fun."

Frances sighed, aware of how difficult it was for Tristan to adjust.

— "No. It wasn't"

— "Those men just can't think medieval. I have adopted, but they don't."

The stern voice caused Frances to leave his arms and sit on the bed, sending him a warning look. They'd had this argument – ahem, discussion – a thousand times before.

— "They're doing their best, Tristan. What if you had tried to be a modern man in the fifth century?"

Tristan's huffed, his tantalising chest flexing as he sat. There was no scar to remind him of the battles he'd fought; it annoyed him just as much as he liked it. Frances was the same, all smooth skin and perfect figure. The magic of the necklace.

— "How many of this bunch of idiots would have made it after the first year of service?" he eventually said, golden eyes lost in the vague.

The question startled her; so this is what it was all about. Reaching for his hand, the young woman called her man back to her. Her fingers laced with his, tingles spreading on her palm.

— "Tristan. The aim is not the same. This is over now, the men you lost were skilled and they can never be replaced. Modern people, here, they face other challenges in their lives."

— "Then how come you manage to do it?"

The words cut deep, unwillingly laying bare something Frances had trouble accepting. This side of her that Tristan called forth … she loved it better than the PhD student. The thrill of the hunt, the beauty of instinct, the rawness of nature. And his body, compliant, animalistic against hers. A world so different than the brain-oriented path she had been pushed upon by well-willing parents.

— "I don't know… I just think I was never adapted to my world in the first place."

Tristan nodded. At least, Frances knew what he talked about. He'd trained her to scout; she was remarkable albeit she couldn't throw a dagger to save her life. The farm he worked with also gave them the opportunity to ride more. Despite her protests, Frances had no choice but to learn. Now she could even shoot on horseback despite still being skittish around those beasts. Horse care duty definitely fell upon his lap.

Sword fighting though … it was his favourite training. The little clearing he had found was the best spot for their exertions. There, Tristan learnt elvish moves that he incorporated in his technique. She, on the other hand, drank his teachings like a baby suckling his mother's breast, integrating his counsels just as easily as she took his body into hers.

They were now evenly matched in swordfight, especially after their time in Japan with the Samuraïs.

Thrice, the Keeper of Time had been called. Thrice, they had travelled together. Once to the past, landing in the Japanese mountains and learning kendo. He'd been revered for his skills there, and nearly died from the bullet he had taken. Fortunately, the necklace had called them back before he had lost too much blood.

Another time in a horrible place called Gotham city where even the trees felt smothered by its darkness, helping a man – Bruce Wayne – become a masked vigilante. Bruce's parting gift to both, a sword, never left them now. A heartfelt thank you for saving his mansion from being burnt. Tristan's lips quirked, remembering the villain's line as he taunted Batman. 'You could never do what is necessary,' Ducard had said. And Tristan had cut him down like butter. 'That's why I am here.' True, Bruce and Tristan didn't share the same morals.

The third time, they landed on a Man-O-War in the middle of the Ocean. And while they laid waste to a French Corsair ship, Tristan had realised how efficient they were in battle together.

Saturday's tournament, if not for real, would allow to show his students of the medieval company what it meant to fight alongside a brother in arms. Even though said brother in arms was his woman … and what a woman! They were in for quite a show, especially since there would be an archery contest as well. He couldn't wait to flex his muscles a bit.

Marion was floored. Standing with the crowd in the terraces, jaw agape, she had trouble fathoming what she was seeing. All right, she wasn't a sucker for medieval events in the first place, but being back from Africa, she just couldn't pass up the opportunity to visit Frances. As it was, her only available week-end was the one of the tournament, and she'd agreed to come by and take pictures.

Frances' words echoed in her head now. 'You'll see what my man is made of tomorrow.' Well, now, she was seeing. Believing, though, was another matter. Ever since he'd pulled that trick with the daggers, Marion had been suspicious of the man. A few years away didn't abate her feelings about him; he was dangerous. But not to Frances. And despite the fact that her friend, a brainy 'I never get out' woman, was turning into something very, very different – and a little unsettling – she couldn't help but notice that she seemed happy.

Frances still didn't go out, neither did Tristan actually. A dinner or a drink was the most you could get them to partake in. No crowded places, neither noisy ones. Theatres were out of the question, let alone clubs. But take them hiking for a few days in the wilderness and they would both settle happily around a campfire, she gazing into his eyes like a lovesick fool before they settled on the ground, members intertwined in a custom-made bedroll. Cities made them cringe, and even then, they would run to the first clutter of trees. Marion didn't mind; she had enjoyed a few hikes with them over the years and found Tristan's skills rather handy. Hunting, making shelters, tending to the fire, cooking, repairing shoes with nothing but a sewing kit. He could do it all. Yet … this was altogether different.

The other contestants had been eliminated a while ago, standing outside the range, but Tristan had yet to fail and the organisers were having some fun throwing at him the most peculiar challenges. Every single shot he'd made landed dead centre. Every fucking arrow. And now, since the crowd cheered for more, the man had been brought a horse and started galloping around, double recurve bow in hand. Moving targets were launched, some high in the sky, other just dummies over rails. One by one, his arrows embedded themselves in the padding. By the game ended, the crowd was cheering his name.

— "I told you that was worth it," Frances told her.

Still clapping, Marion turned to her friend.

— "Well, wow"

— "He's a great archer," Frances smiled with a fond look.

Still very much in love, then.

— "The greatest you've ever known, I guess?"

Frances chewed at her lip, taken aback by her cheerful question. Marion waited patiently, but she couldn't help but notice the hazy look upon her friend's features. Little did she know that Frances was comparing Legolas and Tristan's skill, and just couldn't decide. Until she whispered.

— "No, I don't think so. But he's a good teacher, I have improved a lot as well."

Marion nodded, worried. What the hell was that look? And who could possibly be better than that, other than an Olympics champion? How the hell did Frances meet so many people with weird skills anyway? Throwing daggers, archery and medieval fencing… Tristan definitely was a man from the past. Or at least, his soul was.

— "I got to go, they'll be waiting for me for the tournament. Wish me well!"

On a whim, Marion stood and hugged her friend fiercely.

— "Be careful out there"

— "Bah, there's nothing to worry about. It's a game, blades are blunt and you know, people are really clumsy compared to medieval fighters."

— "Then why do you carry that sword?"

Her fingers pointed to the katana hanging by her side, and Frances winked. Of course, she couldn't fight the tournament with the katana that Bruce offered her, but she seldom separated from it. It either was in her trunk, either under her bed; always prepared for a mission.

— "Porte bonheur my lady"

And she kissed Marion's cheek, disappearing in the crows. Frowning, the young woman followed Frances' braid – the familiar trail of fire – a bad feeling pooling in her stomach.

Marion readied her camera; she had promised to take a few pictures of the fight after all. If she caught a good one, it might very well end up in a PowerPoint when those two decided to get married. Would those archaic dudes every tie the knot? Perhaps they even predated Christian marriage … and were practically joined at the hip anyway – literally just as much as figuratively; where Frances went, Tristan followed. A looming figure, a shadow watching her every step. Just as unsettling as he was reassuring.

So when the tournament began, Marion started snapping shots frantically. At first, the field was rather busy with teams battling here and there in what seemed like disorganised chaos. The young woman didn't care much about the rules, so she just kept her eyes trained for Frances and Tristan. The first batch wore complicated plate armours and had trouble walking around with such weight over their shoulders, making fights awkward. How difficult was it to breathe in that metal encasing? Ugh, she would have hated it. Still, it made them pretty unattainable and she gathered that judges probably counted points somewhere because it would take a while before any of them went to the ground. Unless they wanted to end up in the emergency room, that is.

Groups rotated, and at last, Marion spotted Frances; she was one of the rare women to participate. And given the people she was going to fight against, it was little wonder. A leather armour protected her body from head to toe, the fit so snug that it seemed made for her – a gift from Galadriel, but this, Marion would never know. A small helmet covered her hair and ears without restricting her field of vision; a flexible outfit that allowed her ease of movement. Beside her, Tristan wore an elaborate design of metal and leather; he seemed more at ease dressed like this than any other on the makeshift battlefield, his graceful prowl unhindered by the weight. For a moment, Marion froze, camera in hand, witnessing what she had suspected from the first day.

It blew in her face like a firecracker. Frances and Tristan were fighters, and she was seeing them in their element for the first time. A few shouts from Tristan had their men, four more students in the medieval company, spread out on the field. He clearly was in charge, and unsheathed his curved sword with practised ease, taunting his opponents at it slowly slid out of the scabbard. The strategy worked, for three men sprang into the fray. Naïve, or idiots, Marion couldn't possibly fathom what had pushed them to ignore the dangerous vibes that oozed out of Tristan. She, for one, never could.

The first round of fighting was over in a matter of seconds as he broke enemy ranks like a dancer. One step here, sword raised, another backwards, blade sliding upon another, the third one aside with a mighty slice and three men were out of the game. Beside him, Frances kept a careful distance, stepping in occasionally to slice an opponent's back.

Marion watched, jaw slack, as her friend and schoolmate laid destruction on the battlefield, her moves as graceful as his, straight for the kill with no mercy whatsoever. Her long, narrow sword danced in her arms, movements swift, picking up opponents like she would pluck daisies. On a stage, they would have been principal dancers, evolving around one another with a flock of swan lake ladies fluffing their feathers around them. Here, they were two angels of death, attuned to one another in the most intuitive way.

And when one of their colleagues got 'sliced' and had to quit the game, Marion couldn't help but notice the stiffness of Tristan's shoulders as he watched his student leave, an unreadable mask set on his features. By then, there was no one left in the adverse team.

One by one, the winners met other teams. One by one, Frances and Tristan crushed their opponents, three men by their side. Snapping pictures, Marion watched her shots in between rounds. Most would go to the bin directly, too blurred to make heads or tails of it. In the few ones that were clear, her attention got caught by one where Tristan's sword blocked a blow destined to one of his men. She had seen Frances save another guy's sorry ass too, but most of her parries prevented anyone from sneaking on Tristan from behind. Not that he needed it; the man was always one step ahead. Still, he used the advantage she gave him, barely checking over his shoulder to acknowledge her moves before he focused his attention elsewhere. It went so fast that she wondered how they could possibly manage such a symbiosis. But the truth was that it worked.

Marion frowned; this wasn't a game for them. This was the way they saw life. Protecting each other on a battlefield. She had always known that Frances' forlorn character came from past hurts, but ever since Tristan had walked into her life, she had switched from the defensive woman she used to be to an offensive stance. Now, Frances didn't shy away and stood her ground when in the past, she deflected and hid until the storm passed. They were still rather closed off, none much better than the other. But at least they watched each other's backs … and not only figuratively. Marion pursed her lips; she wasn't too sure if she was happy about the change. Aggressiveness never led to anything good, in her honest opinion. Yet, Frances seemed happier.

It was rather difficult to judge at this point. A pause was decided before the final round and Marion tip toed along the range in hopes of catching them. Fortunately, she was tall enough.

— "Hey Frances!" she yelled, swinging her hand up above three rows of spectators.

The young woman, helmet discarded, turned in her direction and spotted her.

— "Hey, come over!"

Marion passed through the crowd, diving under the red cord that delimited the range carefully, her heavy camera in hand. Frances didn't try to hug her friend; her amour was covered in grime, but she greeted Marion with a cheeky grin.

— "So, having fun?"

— "Not as much as you are." Marion grumbled. "But I've got a few nice shots."

And she showed her friend the pictures she'd managed to take, compliments flowing out of Frances' mouth as she spotted her man in action. He truly was magnificent; too bad they never got to take pictures of him in the fifth century. As for herself … well, she had never realised how intimidating this armour looked upon her. Too bad she couldn't thank the lady of the Woods for such a kingly present.

— "You're good at this," Marion told her.

Frances gave her a lopsided smile, sadness lingering behind her eyes. As if there were too many things left unsaid.

— "I'd better be. My instructor is demanding."

Turning to Tristan, both women watched as he addressed a stern look to the man sitting on a bench. The apprentice had trouble not to squirm under his watchful gaze and Frances smiled, shaking her head.

— "He is pissed that we've lost of one ours."

Marion shrugged, studying Tristan's tense features and the tightness of his posture before her gaze returned to Frances' armour. The patterns carved into the leather truly were splendid; leaves and flowers, vines and trees. She wondered how much it cost. And the sword at her hip; both must be worth a fortune.

— "Bah, it's just a game you know," Marion eventually said.

— "But it's his job, to teach them to defend themselves…"

Defend themselves against what? Truth be told, Marion didn't understand this safety obsession. Tristan's tense voice suddenly echoed by her side, making her jump.

— "In real combat, he would be dead."

Setting a hand over her running heart, Marion grumbled about him being silent as death. He had done it over and over again in the span of their tentative friendship, never once apologising for scaring her.

— "Mind your surroundings," he whispered in her ear before fishing an apple out of nowhere.

The same fucking sentence he always told her whenever he managed to sneak up on her! Damn scout! Marion huffed, sending a pissed look to Frances while Tristan started slicing the fruit.

— "How come you're not jumping when he does that?"

— "I always know where he is," she answered truthfully. "Internal Tristan GPS," she added, patting her heart below the intricately carved breastplate.

Tristan sent her a grin, then handed a piece of apple that she accepted gladly. This gesture was loaded with such sense that it felt like a marriage proposal. Biting in the juicy piece, Frances addressed her a smile. Marion ignored her friend in favour of a glare.

— "You know life isn't a battlefield, right?"

— "I'm glad yours isn't," Tristan responded seriously.

And Marion felt her insides melt when his intense gaze bore into hers. Damn, growing up in the steppes must have been harsher than what she thought. But what about Frances? Why would she need to perfect her medieval combat skills when she completed a PhD in numerical geology? What could possibly compel her friend to follow such a lead? Before she could question them any further, the judge asked the contestant to get ready for the last round. Frances nudged Tristan playfully.

— "Ready, sir knight?"

A grunt was her only response, the lines of his face already set in stone. Sighing, Marion prepared her camera, climbing upon the bench. As Frances blew her a kiss, she couldn't help but notice a slight blue glow spreading from the centre of her chest. Then she turned around and joined Tristan at the front. Marion blinked; surely a reflection of the sun. Weird.

Several other teams had congregated to face Tristan and Frances in this last parody of a fight to even the numbers. They both seemed unfazed, sharing a kiss before they pulled their helmets on and dragged their three remaining teammates. The fight resumed, just as frenzied as the previous ones and Marion watched, once more, the incredible demonstration of skill from both her friend and the war machine that was her man.

Until…

Until a strange blue glow started to swarm the battlefield, engulfing the contestants in an eerie light.

— "What the …?"

People were shouting around her, and Marion stood, frozen. Then she heard Frances scream at the top of her lungs. "Tristan!"

Marion snapped pictures in the confusion, hoping that the lens would adjust to the light easier than her aching eyes. The blue glow brightened until it became blinding, then a whoosh echoed in the range, and everything went silent.

Marion opened her eyes, frowning, only to realise that Frances and Tristan were nowhere in sight. And when she looked at the last picture she had snapped, she could barely outline the shape of Frances' arm reaching for her armoured man, surrounded by ethereal blue light.

Wiped out from the surface of the earth; they were never found. The news tried to downplay their disappearance, but Frances and Tristan had disappeared entirely. Several days after this, a young woman named Cécile, Frances' cousin, popped up in her apartment with a letter. One written by her missing friend. Opening it with trembling hands, Marion shed heavy tears as she read the lines addressed to her.

"Marion. If you are reading this, it means that we never returned from our last mission, whatever, wherever, whenever it was. You have been a great friend and I hope you live a long and happy life.

Tristan says 'Hi', even if he keeps telling me you are suspecting something is wrong with him. You were somehow right; Tristan is a knight from the fifth century, a knight of the round table. I saved him during a mission, bringing him back so he could have surgery. He would have died on the battlefield if I had not. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, but now I am dead, or lost, or stuck somewhere in the past, the future, or a parallel dimension, it doesn't matter anymore, right? Give a kiss to William for me, I'll miss you both.

Cheers, Frances"

Marion sucked in a breath. So there it was, the plain ugly truth. The truth that Frances and her man travelled through time, and had, one day, not returned. They knew it might happen, hence the letter. And had Marion not captured the moment of their departure with her camera, she would never have believed it. The fact that Cécile had brought Frances' writings about her adventures only corroborated her story. This was plain crazy.

Her family took the news hard, and although they wept for their daughter's loss, they couldn't help but proud of her for learning the fights she had led, the people she had inspired. And they understood Tristan's archaic wording and behaviour, and the skill he possessed made more sense. His graceful strides, the awareness of a hawk … and the sensitivity, sometimes, of a middle age man!

And when a historian tapped on their door, bringing a tablet that was discovered in the remains of the Lugdunum amphiteatrum with their exact address upon it, dated from the fifth century, they knew. They knew Frances had found her bay back to King Arthur, and for sure, a message awaited them. It was written in Latin, and it took Cécile a few minutes to translate it to them. She was the only one who ever knew of Frances' secret, and the one to whom she missed the most.

"I am sorry, I miss you, but I couldn't do differently. The necklace brought us home and we stayed in the fifth century, we had a long and happy life, three children who survived, ten grandchildren. We served Arthur. There are tales of him and the lady Frances and Sir Tristan (and Isolde, his hawk). You made me what I am, thank you. I love you. Forever yours"

Frances.

**_So, back to square one for those two. I just couldn't leave Tristan in this poor modern world. What do you think ?_**


	12. Chapter 10 - Freedom - First Part

1\. Freedom

**_Hey. So I've been meaning to write this one for a while because… I don't know. I jus pictured it in my mind. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers._**

Eight against two hundred. The dreadful figure threatened to engulf her, and the young woman had to double over to bear the blow, her right hand searching for the wall to keep on her feet.

— "Madam, are you all right?"

The young man's voice, Ganis, barely registered through her ears as she struggled to breathe. Eight against two hundred. No miracle could save them now. Doomed. Her man and his brothers were doomed. Her heart wanted to badly to leap out of her chest, her breath coming in pants as she clawed as the rocks beside her. If Arthur had got them killed … she would eviscerate him with her own hands, no matter how much she respected the commander.

— "Madam, please let me help!"

His frantic voice called Frances back to reality. Lifting her swimming gaze to the dark-haired boy, she could only contemplate the desolation writ upon his features. And the awe of being alive, thanks to the fearsome Sarmatian men left behind on a frozen lake. Their sacrifice for the villagers' lives.

— "Please! Somebody help!" he cried, his hand grasping hers as she panted, her legs wobbly.

And a red-haired tornado appeared by their side but one moment later.

— "I'll handle this," she said, her voice holding such authority that the man nodded and disappeared.

Frances felt Vanora's hand test her temperature and rest upon her belly with a frown.

— "Is it the babe?"

The young woman shook her head, grasping Vanora's strong arms to steady herself.

— "No. Not yet," she whispered. "Have you heard?"

— "Aye."

And it was the only answer the barmaid could provide her before both women embraced fearfully.

— "I'm afraid, Vanora. I can't lose him now"

— "You know how they make a habit of beating the odds. Keep your hopes up"

Frances sniffed, holding Vanora in a crushing embrace that only heavily pregnant women knew how to summon. Her friend was right; it was no time to despair. Year after year, even as the knight's numbers dwindled, theirs always came back with incredible stories. The tavern, filled with laughter and sorrow, was testimony to the miracles only Sarmatian men could summon. And later, when her knight took her to bed, he would recount the true story without adornment and exaggerations; she still found it miraculous.

— "Right"

— "And Tristan can be nasty."

Frances chuckled, wiping her eyes in shame. If she didn't trust her man to come back, who would? Being the scout, Tristan faced the worst odds when riding alone, but somehow he had always made it back to her. And as her bump grew through the year, he came home with fewer and fewer scratches, mindful of preserving his life. If the sun stopped rising, he would find his way back in the dark, Isolde – the Hawk – by his side.

— "Come, we'll get up the wall and wait."

And both women stood there, eyeing the caravan of villagers that climbed the grassy slope, their eyes stuck in the woods in hopes of seeing them until Vanora had to get back to work.

Frances watched her go, her eyes following her incredible fit form – after 11 children! – as she passed the shiny armour of a Roman officer and disappeared down the stairs. What courage it took to be that woman, to give birth eleven times, raise her brood and handle her job. And keep Bors in line! Vanora, in her mind, was the best friend she ever had and the strongest woman she'd ever known. And so Frances stayed at the wall, her protruding belly – the baby could arrive anytime now – wrapped in a long woollen cloak Tristan had lent her. His scent still lingered on the cloth, giving her courage as she shifted from foot to foot. The tightness in her lower back was getting more intense as days passed.

The dull pace of riding should have lulled him to sleep. With the wagon containing Dagonet's body, they couldn't go much faster anyway.

Heaviness didn't even describe how laden his heart was. Shoulders sagged, the knight feared the moment his eyes would meet hers. Not because of her wrath, no. But the grief that would pool into her wide hazel eyes would finish him entirely. His woman, the woman who has refused to relent every time he chased her away from him with hurtful words or indifference. The only being in the world that could love him entirely, even though she knew what lay within the confines of his soul. The warm body that shared his bed and his life, patched him up, fed him and mended his clothes like a dutiful wife. The wife the Roman refused her to be.

She had not a care in the world about marriage as long as he was there. And the light in her eyes whenever she looked at him baffled him entirely, even if he knew the same brightness shone in his. She was the most beautiful being of the world, the miracle that had barged into his life and decided to take root in his chambers. If Gods really existed, they had sent her to keep him from losing himself.

And now Dagonet was dead. Their friend, her father figure, the man who would have delivered their daughter – and not a son, as Lancelot always jabbed – and become his Godfather. She would be devastated, even more than himself. He was used to the loss, it only carved a bigger chunk of his broken heart. But he knew she wasn't ready to handle this one, not in her emotional state.

Who was he kidding? She wasn't the only one. Even if he didn't cry his eyes out like Bors, wailed like Galahad, or brood like Arthur didn't mean that he wasn't affected. The blank mask of indifference protected his heart from being picked apart by vultures, but inside he was crumbling in grief. And he prayed, once more, than his child would not be a son for, fearsome scout or not, Tristan would not survive to give his flesh and blood for the Romans to corrupt.

The wall appeared before their little company, and Tristan heard the sighs of his colleagues around him. Ignoring their glances, his eyes immediately found her form upon the wall, right where he thought she would be. Protruding belly held with her two hands – even bigger than five days ago – long reddish hair dancing in the wind, she looked every bit the woman he'd fallen in love with. And despite being surrounded by death, he couldn't fathom how she had managed to create life. With him of all men. How could a skilled killer like him perform this miracle, if not by the grace of the woman who had allowed it? At first he didn't tell her, but he was rather sure she was going to lose the baby. But now … the child clung to her. Perhaps she really was magical, his little fairy. What else, if a woman who managed to make him feel alive?

And she never left him, although he deserved it a thousand times. Just like the child. Perhaps the baby loved him too, perhaps he found him worthy to sire him. And this child, still embedded in her loving womb, would know his father thanks to Dagonet. The Gods bless his courage for doing what no one else could.

Frances spotted them as soon as they emerged from the tree line, her gaze instantly meeting his. Even for this far, he saw how her shoulders sagged in relief, her tiny hand flying to her mouth in disbelief as she thanked the heavens for his life. How he knew her by now, every meander of her mind, every little habit. Hawk let out a piercing cry and flew away to join her; a kindred soul for his woman had the eyes of a bird of prey. Just like him. And when her posture stiffened, he knew she had guessed something was wrong just by looking at his defeated posture. It bewildered him, the way she read him so easily when no one else could. His impassive face, his guarded glances, Tristan knew how to remain unreadable. Except to her. She told him, one day, that she only needed to gaze at him to feel his soul. He believed her, wondering why the others couldn't. 'They don't know how to read' was her simple answer. But she did, and loved him all the same for what was within, even when he despised himself for his weakness.

By the time the Bishop handed the knight's papers, Vanora and Frances were standing on the other side of the grid, hands held tightly, tears running down their faces. She couldn't help it, hiding the hiccups in her cloak, eyes glued to Dagonet's lifeless form, his arm sticking out of this despicable carriage. Her lifelong friend, her surrogate father. Dead. Damn pregnancy for making her so emotional that the slightest vexation made her cry. And losing Dagonet was like losing the earth she walked upon, the pillars that held her life together.

Bors' outburst called a new wave of fresh tears to her eyes; his grief oozed out of him like a giant storm, hitting both women with such force that they wavered. But Vanora was stronger than most and she stood her ground despite her broken heart, leading her lover to their home in haste. Exhausted, Frances lay her head upon the grid, closing her eyes as dizziness overtook her. This child was stealing her strength.

A hand suddenly landed on her arm and she whirled around, nearly toppling over as she faced Lancelot's sad eyes.

— "Need a hand?" he asked.

And there was none of his flirty behaviour, concern replacing cheesy comments as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. For years, Lancelot had tried to win her over; little did he know that Tristan held her heart already. Now, he only flirted to rile his rival up; it never worked. They both knew the unbreakable bond between the scout and his woman. On earth, they would be no other. Today, Lancelot only meant to be a friend, and she was thankful for his kindness for his arm steadied her as she wobbled on her feet. Worry had only added a burden over her already sleepless nights and back pains. Frances was spent.

A nod was her only response, for behind the dark knight, a familiar figure was approaching.

— "Take care of our scout," Lancelot said, his hand lingering just a moment over her arm in support.

— "Aye, you know I will," was her wavering response.

Shoulders slumped, body aching from the roughness of the past days, Tristan's long legs closed the distance in no time. His proud posture burdened, the purpose of his strides lessened, the weight upon his frame so tremendous that she wondered, for a moment, if he would topple over. And despite the unkempt beard and shaggy hair, despite the dried blood and mud caked on his clothes, despite the smell, even, of sweat and horse that made her gag, Frances couldn't help but find him beautiful. Her man, her handsome knight, worse for wear and rough around the edge, the father of this insufferable child that now moved around in her womb, frantically awaiting for a caress of his graceful fingers. A smile graced her lips to welcome him.

Tristan stopped a breath away, his tall frame causing her to crane her neck so that she could lose herself in the beauty of his ever-changing eyes. There was no depth to the endless pool of sadness that lingered there; Frances' tears flowed freely upon her face, sharing his pain, expressing it for him. Then his rough hand landed upon her belly, hesitantly, feeling the life inside her womb. They both bowed their heads, watching the fascinating ripple of her swollen belly as he caressed it. His braid tickled her ear as he bent closer, whispering.

— "I am sorry, little one."

And she knew what he meant – their child had lost his godfather – pressing herself against him to embrace him awkwardly.

— "Thank you for coming back to us."

A lump formed in Tristan's throat, preventing him from answering that it was not of his doing. The knight grit his teeth instead, holding her close but refusing to dig his face in the crook of her neck for fear of breaking down altogether. His jaw remained thus, holding grief at bay in the bath house as he washed grime and blood. Not a word passed his lips as Frances dressed him in clean garments, eyeing the box he had saved for Dagonet's burial. Stoic, or made of stone? He wondered. But Frances' warm gaze never judged, never demanded as she stayed by his side, a comforting presence with her rounded belly and soft curves. She didn't attempt to hug him, sensing his unease, the need to stand tall before his fellow brothers.

She didn't speak either as she wrapped into the heavy cloak, fingers intertwining with his as they climbed the hill that led to their sorry little cemetery. Tristan remained silent until Dagonet was buried properly and Bors left on his tomb to drink to his health, release papers safely enclosed in the ridiculously ornate box. And his heart bled, drop by drop, leaking internally until he couldn't hold it together and dragged Frances out of the tavern to take her to their bed. Free, at last. He was free. Free to make her his wife if she wanted to – she probably didn't care about marriage – free to dote on her and his child who would soon see the light thanks to Dagonet. And he wondered if the giant had thought about his goddaughter before he lifted that axe and exposed himself to Saxon bolts. Somehow, he owed it to him to be a good father, a good husband. But before he could do that, he needed to let go of his sorrow.

And he cried his grief as he cried his pleasure in Frances' arms, bodies mingling, her legs encasing him, her arms protecting as he panted, giving up all pretence. She was the only one who would ever see him cry. He gave it all to her, unleashing his pain in the act of lovemaking until he was but a sobbing heap in the safe circle of her arms. Not a word, only tears, the silent scout even in private. And in the depth of his despair, he failed at noticing how she winced after his release. Contractions always happened after intimacy, nothing to be worried about, right?

— "I love you, my Tristan," she whispered, his arms circling her belly while his head rested upon her now ample chest.

And she caressed his hair while he fell asleep, the exhaustion eventually settling in.

_The next morning_

Mounted on Tristan's lap, Frances couldn't seem to keep still as they progressed. Smoke lingered in the air, sometimes blown by the wind over their caravan and the knight worried that it might hurt his child. It surprised him that his first thought would be for the well-being of his unborn daughter – son, would have protested Lancelot if he'd heard his thoughts – rather than the imminent demise of his friend and commander. But the dark knight was in foul mood. Did Lancelot blame Arthur for Dagonet's death as well? Or did he mourn the commander already?

Frances squirmed again in his lap, her extra weight already cutting the circulation in his legs and Tristan snapped with impatience.

— "Stop fidgeting, woman."

— "My back hurts, I'm sorry."

Her voice was stained, dark circles under her eyes indicating how poorly she had slept recently. Probably not even better than he as he roamed the wilderness. Tristan softened, trying to massage her lower back as she bent forward. Truth be told, the capacity of women to adapt to a child left him rather speechless. Magic.

— "A little more, my love, and you'll get your body back," he crooned in her ear.

In any other circumstance, a blush would have crept up her face to redden her cheek; he knew how she reacted to his voice, especially when he felt flirtatious. But today…

'RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS'

Bors' mighty call echoed in the valley, his eyes misted with tears as he saluted their commander's last stand. That big brute was so emotional, especially now that he was a father, and they relentlessly teased him for it. But on top of the hill, Arthur waited, clad in shiny armour, his flag flowing in the breeze. An image they would never forget, carved in their memories like the plains of Sarmatia. For a moment, they thought Arthur would remain still until he lifted his banner and unleashed his rage…

'RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS'

The Sarmatian war cry caught them all off guard, a heartfelt call from a friend who had bled and nearly died with them. The last goodbye. And Tristan's chest tightened, regret pooling in his mouth to leave him to die up there. Alone. But their service was over, his duty, now, was to watch over his family. And said family was rather impatient to meet him.

Frances arched backwards with a whimper; the movement so sudden that he barely had time to catch her before she toppled over. Frustration won over patience and he growled aggressively.

— "Damn it! Are you out of your mind, you nearly fell from the horse!"

He regretted his angry words at once, for he knew what came next. Her wide chocolate eyes would mist over, her lovely heart hurt by his venom before she bowed her head in sadness.

'Twack'

The slap surprised him so badly that his jaw went slack. Anger shone in her eyes, fierce and determined rage that would have make a lesser man cower. But not him. Retribution would be swift; pregnant or not, his woman was not entitled to attack him.

— "I'd like to see you with birth pains, damn scout!" she retorted hotly.

Tristan's eyes widened, all thoughts of revenge forgotten as she grimaced, replaced by sudden fear. Fear became anger in less time it took to blink; Tristan's typical reaction.

— "Now? Of all times …!"

The young woman huffed, her arms circling him in a tight hold.

— "Don't yell at me! It's not like I can choose."

Her heartfelt scolding sobered him more efficiently than an enemy's arrow to the chest. He was so used to the way she dodged obligations and his foul mood alike to manage their little household that it didn't occur to him that she couldn't control it. Frances could, with the barest of thread and piece of cloth, fix his tunics, with a little ingeniosity get a nice supper, with a few words arrange for better bedding, and with her friendship have the blacksmith repair the notches in his sword.

But today she was totally helpless. And scared. He had no doubt his woman would pull it off without a scratch; no need to take a look inwards and realise how frightened he was to lose her too. Sobering up, he slid his arm around her to caress her belly.

— "What do you need?" he asked urgently.

— "A hammer to the back of the skull, please."

Tristan bit his lip, remembering Bors' advice not to antagonise a woman in labour under pain of death.

— "Sorry, no hammer"

Frances chuckled.

— "Your presence shall have to do, then."

Then she tried to change position to straddle the beast as well. Tristan helped her pass her leg over his mare's neck, realising how difficult it was for her to lift it without bumping on her protruding belly. An exhausted sigh greeted his effort and she slumped forward. Tristan frowned; she was already so tired. It worried him, and enraged him at the same time. Had this stupid Bishop not sent them north… Dagonet would be here to greet his baby into the world, and Frances might have slept before this ordeal befell her shoulders. Childbirth was no laughing matter.

— "Hold me tight and pull when I say so."

Her little fingers guided his larger hand to cup her belly, and he could feel the muscle harden when a contraction hit. Damn, he couldn't imagine how painful it must be; he wasn't a stranger to cramps and, for once, thanked the Gods that he was a man. It probably was the first time he didn't curse his gender; a girl never would have served the Roman army. If Tristan had been a woman, he might have remained in Sarmatia and never known the heartache of losing his brothers. And perhaps … died in childbirth.

Pushing those sombre thoughts from his mind, Tristan followed Frances' lead as she pushed hard against her belly, dragging his hand upwards while the contraction lasted. Once it was over, a sigh passed her lips.

— "That helps, thank you, my handsome knight."

The Sarmatian's lips quirked slightly; she never had qualms about telling him how he pleased her. It helped, somehow, to appease the turmoil in his mind, especially when she looked at him with such awe. And so, now was his turn to lend his strength to the wonderful woman who carried and cared for his child. The woman who dared mixing her blood to his, with pride nonetheless. He still had trouble believing it.

That little game went on for a while, Frances fidgeting and he pulling at her belly to relieve the pain whenever he felt her tense up. All in all, it seemed to work and Tristan started to relax. Trust Frances to keep her cool while giving birth in a middle of a disband. On horseback. She truly was an extraordinary woman, a worthy spouse of a Sarmatian knight. Soon, very soon, he would meet his daughter and beat the crap out of Lancelot for annoying them about it being a boy. It made him … nearly giddy. Expect that Frances wisely kept her mouth shut about said gender…

The sudden fidgeting of his mare caught them both off guard, and Tristan had to retrieve the reins with both hands, his elbows tightly woven around his woman's body lest she fell over. Frances' hands flew over her head, catching his nape to stabilize herself as her belly tightened again. The groan that escaped failed at covering the sound of drums echoing in the distance. Tristan blanched, his thighs massaging the mare's sides in an attempt to quieten her. Around them, all the knights had trouble calming their mounts.

Warriors horses; they reacted to the thrill of battle. Danger lurked, and the animals turned around to face the threat. Around them, Galahad exchanged a knowing look with Lancelot, then Gawain and Bors. A nice row of pearly teeth appeared as his lips pulled up, and Tristan couldn't help but shudder.

There it was, their last stand.

The one and only battle of their choosing, their chance to regain the honour so badly trampled over the years. The opportunity to avenge Dagonet. And even though Vanora's face fell when she understood Bor's intentions, Tristan couldn't possibly imagine the wrath of his woman when she would realise where his heart lay.

He couldn't leave her. He couldn't leave them.

Frozen upon his horse, Tristan felt the earth swallow him whole.

Frances squirmed upon the horse, panting anew as a contraction hit. The knight tightened his hold to keep her upright, his mind blank. But then, she spoke to him.

— "Take me down, I can't do it anymore."

And the knight obeyed, eyeing his companions already as they prepared their armours and tested their bows. Yet, he didn't leave his wife's side as she bent over. Gathering her into his arms, Tristan made sure her feet had touched the ground before he gazed into her eyes, pleading his case silently.

Frances' eye widened in fear, her terror neatly replaced by anger.

— "Now? Of all times …!", she exclaimed, throwing his words back at him.

And Tristan knew that all eyes now laid upon them, including Vanora's whose experience taught her everything she needed to know. Frances was in labour, and her man begging her acceptance.

The young woman steeled herself, fighting off the next contraction by hanging herself to her knight's neck with a roar so mighty that half the caravan turned to glance backwards.

— "Damn it!" she cried. "Damn it to hell, Tristan!"

And it wasn't the pain that caused her to yell, but the despair than her man, the father of her child, might very well not see him come to light. Tears ran down her cheek as she stood once more, her eyes firmly planted in Tristan's. The knight was silent; he would beg no more. If his lady refused to release him, he would stay, no matter how strongly his heart screamed.

Galahad, fully armoured, rode to his side.

— "Stay, Tristan. She needs you here."

And he clenched his jaw, torn from within between two loyalties that couldn't win above one another. And when her voice rose, quiet at first, then determined, he couldn't quite believe his ears.

— "No. Go."

Trapped in her gaze, Tristan's drowned in the storm of her eyes, the swirl of emotions so powerful that it made his body hum. She swallowed then, and straightened, head held high, sweat running alongside her temple.

— "Go, save their sorry asses."

Stunned, Tristan could only gape as she bit her lip, worry clearly painted upon her features. She was terrified … not to be giving birth, but to lose him. And the realisation floored him.

— "But hear me, knight. You are responsible for this life so I expect you to be there to greet him."

And although it shouldn't have it made him smile, he couldn't help it. Yes, he was responsible for his child and could never thank her enough for judging him worthy of it. Wait, did she say 'him'?

— "Get back to me, Tristan," she whispered, her hands tightening around his forearms.

And if his heart feared for her, pride filled his chest, witnessing the courage of his wife as she struggled against herself to release him. Tristan kissed her soundly before sealing his promise, his hand lingering upon the swollen bump that would, very soon, be no more.

— "Aye, my woman. I will"

A promise like no other.

And while they darted away, climbing the hill in full armour and ready to lay waste on the Saxon army, they all heard the powerful scream that echoed in the valley below.

"RUUUUUUUUUUUS!"

Arthur startled at the feminine cry, turning around to discover the last remaining knights, fully armoured and ready for battle, reaching for him at full gallop. Contemplating their faces with owe and gratitude, he was surprised when Tristan rode beside him with a stern look.

— "Hurry, my daughter is being born. I don't have much time"

A wide smile bloomed upon Arthur Castus's face; if his scout was so adamant to survive this battle, then there might still be a chance.

— "You mean your son?" quipped Lancelot.

**_ You have tobiramamara to thank for this chapter tonight :)_**


	13. Chapter 11 - Freedom - Second Part

**_I dedicate this chapter to all mothers who've been through THAT! _********_ Honestly speaking though, this will be close enough to reality since I gave birth to both of my sons (8.3 and 9.3 pounds) at home, meaning without anaesthetics and with a pretty experienced midwife. Old style. So there's a lot of my experience in this which should make it more realistic. Not easy, but absolutely feasible. It's not to show off, just to tell you that when nature is respected, great things can happen. Women are powerful creatures, and with the right people by one's side, things are not easy, but possible._**

**_As usual Koba, you've seen right through me: D_**

**_Tobi: there, cliffy is fixed :p_**

Time passed at the rhythm of rolling contractions. The pain increased, notch by notch, until Frances's legs refused to carry her anymore; she had to pause too often. The villagers were adamant to cover some distance away from the dreaded Saxon army and Vanora has to hoist her up at the back of her family's cart to prevent from leaving her behind.

In the roller coaster of emotions, Frances could only protest that every single wobbly turn of the wheel took her away from her man. Still, it was better than deliberately walking away, every single step taking her a foot further. For the moment, her body managed to handle childbirth and left her time to think about him. Was he all right? Hurt already? Dead? Certainly not, she dared hope that she would know. How did he handle the strain of the battle after their last mission? How exhausted was he?

Every cramp called her back to the ironic reality. While Tristan battled the Saxon, she was giving birth to his child. The ever-changing positions – all fours, half propped, extended to grab the cart's frame – managed to bring her a little respite. And Vanora's insistent massage upon her lower back made miracles on the joint ache. Soon though … soon…

Her mind never ceased to return to him. Every time the breeze blew their way, the scent of smoke reached her nose, the sounds of distant battle echoing. And Frances grit her teeth, nor for the pain nor the exhaustion, but for fear that her man may not return. And this blasted caravan went on and on, away from the place where his lips had lingered upon her skin one last time.

Panic overtook her as she shouted.

— "Stop! Vanora, tell them to stop!"

— "We need to move in case…"

The redhead couldn't say it; despite her confident front, her eyes lingered on Badon Hill, even for this far. Her heart, too, was breaking thinking about Bors. And she needed to see Frances through her first childbirth.

— "Our men will need us to patch them up," the stubborn mother-to-be told her.

— "Like you are in any state to do it. You'll cripple your man if you pick up a needle, I tell ya."

Muffled laughter turned into a groan as another contraction hit, and Frances presented her back to Vanora who buried her fists in her lower back. They both knew a mass grave could await them upon their return. Worse, even, they might be overtaken by Saxons any moment, and never even find their lover's bodies. In that case … nothing really mattered. They'd all be slaughtered, women and children, pregnant and unborn. So instead of voicing the deep, shaking fear that squeezed at their hearts, the women concentrated on their area of expertise.

— "Ye all right," Vanora soothed once the contraction has passed. "Ye're doing fine."

— "Really? Because it hurts like bitch."

And Frances toppled over, laying aside for a moment as Vanora smirked. Behind them, the eleven children of her brood – minus the ones wandering – were in various states of fluster. The eldest girls watched in fascination, boys disgusted, the youngest ones seemed worried while eleven was thankfully sleeping. Vanora send them a wink; a way to convey that, for now, everything was all right.

— "The first one is the toughest," she told Frances. "The next ones will be easier."

The young woman snorted.

— "Next ones? Hell, I'm not even through with this one, don't talk to me about others."

She knew it was Vanora's way of telling her to keep hopes. That her man would return to take care of his family, and maybe expand it. But for the moment, she just couldn't think about intimacy with Tristan. Ugh! Yet, the barmaid kept the conversation flowing. Who better than a mother of eleven to know the pain of childbirth and the emotions it brought forth? After all, she and Bors couldn't keep their hands off each other, even after eleven children.

— "Who knows. How long did you stop taking herbs before, ye know?"

Frances' eyebrow lifted in her mock expression, as if the question was too preposterous. Who, in their right mind, would have chosen to become pregnant before a two-thousand-mile trip to Sarmatia? Before her man hadn't been released?

— "I didn't."

And as the next cramp announced itself, seizing her upper belly and descending in an unstoppable wave, Frances could only hear Vanora's amused retort.

— "Oops."

Oops indeed. If she was pregnant even while taking contraceptive herbs, there might be many other little Tristan in the near future.

Slice, dice, slice. His sword went through Saxons like butter, their cries feeding the rage that bubbled in his chest. Those boors, equipped like peasants and smelling like pigs kept him from his woman in the most important moment of their shared life. And they paid for it in blood, endless pools that sprouted from valleys he carved without a second thought, crimson spurts gushing from blond warriors who had seen better days.

Riding through the smoke, Tristan fell enemies like an angel of death, relishing in their cries, tasting their fear as his brothers lay waste in their midst. Woad's arrows rained upon them but a moment before; they were so confused, so terrified that they started shooting at each other. Too late; all knights were long gone from the battlefield. Including him, who might have lingered a few years past. But not today. Today, he had a promise to keep.

There was no knight more efficient than Tristan, dead or alive, in the company that had arrived from Sarmatia. Every single movement counted, every flick of his blade, every blow buried in the right place, awaiting the next to sever yet another life. There was no battle cry, no flourish, only cold and calculated efficiency.

When the next volley of arrows finished the first battalion of Saxon men, Tristan was barely panting. Now came the rest of the army; they would find their mate's bodies soon enough and a cruel smirk twisted his lips.

And right before he rode back in the thick of the battle, he sent a prayer to his Gods, to preserve his woman's strength until he could support her with his own.

Frances grit her teeth to refrain from cursing all the Gods of creation. She was losing ground, fighting bravely to keep going. Surely Tristan would never surrender, no matter how sore he was? Her brave, handsome knight, with a will stronger than any stormy sea; he was probably wearier than she was now. Let no one say that she had been unworthy of Tristan. But Damn, it hurt! Still, she fought bravely, breathing slowly into her belly to insufflate life and support to her unborn child, to try to relax those horrible muscles that ached more and more until they were but a giant cramp. How she longed for Dagonet's reassuring presence and strong hands. How she longed for her man!

Control had slowly but surely slipped away as she fought her own battle against the pains of childbirth, and she now lay on her left side, one leg propped on a blanket, helpless. No amount of massage could relieve the crushing agony that tore her body in half, and she dreaded the wave that inexorably tightened around her swollen belly until it plunged its clutches inside. The pain concentrated there, and there was nothing she could to prevent it from converging down; it felt like the hammer of the blacksmith striking her pelvis. Again and again, the respite so few now, contractions so strong and close that she barely breathed in between.

— "Tristan…", she whispered. "Come back to me"

Tristan grit his teeth when the Saxon's sword tore his left underarm, choosing to wield his Dao single-handed to keep the damage minimal. Suddenly, his choice to dismount – he had lost speed and wanted to avoid being thrown off – didn't seem so clever. Especially since he had been engaged in battle by the Saxon leader. The burly man had spotted him head on; the result of being too skilled, probably. Perhaps he could wear him off before Arthur took him, but the damn man was les exhausted than he was, just as adept with his heavy sword, and stronger than him. Fortunately, the helmet had protected the back of Tristan's head from a vicious blow.

Arthur was nowhere in sight, and he couldn't prevent the Saxon leader to take another pass at him. The strong blows wracked his wounded side, sending sharp twinges up his ribs; Tristan used the pain to call forth his rage. Alas, the wrath he summoned couldn't replace his missing strength. His grip faltered under his opponent's mighty attack and he could only contemplate, appalled, the graceful arch of his sword as it was flung aside. The Saxon smirked under his blond beard, satisfied. The duel was over.

Tristan panted, holding his ribs to assess the damage. He knew he probably looked a mess, busted lips, blood flowing in his mouth and down his wounded side. His right leg stung as well, as many other places that didn't even register. His keen eyes took in the surroundings, then returning to the Saxon leader who nudged his sword with his boot. Taunting him to get back into battle, calling his honour, coaxing his pride.

A few years ago, he would have responded in kind, and met his end with a smile. But a promise kept him on the edge of this cliff, preventing him from diving headfirst in the last battle of his life. His woman awaited him, and she probably was in more pain than he was. How he admired her, awed that she had chosen him, this lonely wolf, as her mate. And to be worthy of her, he needed to lend his shoulder.

Isolde's cry echoed through the dark clouds, as if reminding him that he should hurry. The Saxon's leader lifted his eyes to spot the bird in wonder. Tristan's fingers found the dagger strapped to his chest and flung it with a flick of his wrist. The Saxon barely saw it coming, chasing it away with his blade at the latest moment.

The second dagger embedded in his throat.

The third, his eye.

And when Arthur found him, the Saxon was gurgling in his own blood before his remaining eye closed for eternity. The battlefield was suddenly much quieter, and Arthur nodded his thanks to the scout before Tristan retrieved his Dao, and whistled for his mare to dart off the path.

— "Go!" his leader said.

Tristan didn't need to be told twice as he galloped away, muscles and wounds aching like hell. It took forever for him to reach the caravan, and he cursed every mile of the way that a bunch of villagers had travelled so far in so little time. He didn't care how scared they were of being ambushed by the Saxons, or how close it had actually been, how true and logical their fear was. Every step of his mare caused his side to scream in pain, bleeding under caked armour. At last, Hawk cried in the sky and voices rose in front of him.

— "It's a knight!"

— "The scout!"

And he hoped that she was still alive to hear that he had returned to her, as promised, although a little worse for wear and with a gash that would, without a doubt, make her scream bloody murder.

Villagers swarmed him instantly, asking thousand questions to which he partially answered as he passed, or ignored entirely in his haste to reach Vanora.

— "Are the Saxon dead?"

— "Most"

— "Did we win?" asked another man.

Tristan frowned, calling Isolde upon his arm. The sigh of the fearsome bird of prey sent fear amongst the crowd, causing them to part. Did they win, really? When he left, Arthur was still alive, and he had seen a few horses and many woads still standing. Yes. They had won.

— "Aye… I think"

A response for which the mighty scout would be teased for years ahead; he'd never been such a bad informant. Then a young woman practically jumped in front of his horse and the mare neighed nervously. Tristan was nearly flung over, his balance greatly upset by the wound on his side.

— "What about the other knights?" called the maiden.

Had Tristan not been so frantic, he would have given the lass the tongue lashing of her life.

— "That's enough! Leave him be, can't you see the state he is in? Shoo!"

The flock of curious villagers disbanded in the face of Vanora's wrath and Tristan sighed; he had never been so happy to hear her boisterous cries than today. Seeing her approach, he dismounted with a wince, sending Isolde to the skies with a promise to reunite later. The redhead eyed him warily, taking in the dreadful state of his armour and the blood still caked on his lips. In any other circumstance, she would have flung something at his head and yelled at him to get cleaned and sorted. The fact that she didn't worried him the most.

— "Are you badly hurt?" she asked, urgency laced in her voice.

— "I'll live," came his quiet reply.

Although he was well aware that the ground swam a little under his feet. Exhaustion, pain and blood loss were a bad combination, even for the unbreakable scout. Vanora motioned for him to follow, her shoulders tense, and she didn't even ask if Bors was dead or alive before she yelled at the top of her lungs.

— "Gilly! Get Tristan some water, help him. Now!"

Before she could scurry away, Tristan halted her in her tracks, his hand firmly grasping her arm.

— "How is she?"

Vanora looked him in the eye, her frankness as efficient as a cold shower.

— "Exhausted. She needs you, remove that mess, clean your face and hands and come quick."

Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach and his gaze lifted from Vanora to peek at the cart where a flock of reddish hair lay, unmoving. No cries, no yells or grunt, no swear words. Only silence. Never before had he shed his armour unto the ground so carelessly, and despite the searing pain in his side that soaked his tunic he didn't even yell at Gilly for being rough with his battered body. Nothing else mattered.

It didn't take long before he was striding to the cart, his face splashed with cold water and hands scrubbed raw. Vanora was caressing Frances' hair whose back was to him, and she gave him a once over to check how likely he was from passing out probably.

— "Don't touch her, she keeps swatting my hands away."

Tristan nodded, careful to conceal the bloody tunic below his padded shirt. It had only happened once during their time together; when in too much pain, Frances couldn't stand being touched. The scout climbed as gracefully as his injury allowed into the cart, kneeling beside his woman. Her gaze immediately found his, knocking his breath away. Relief flickered amongst the sea of pain, her eyes wide, afraid. A swirl of disbelief, as if she couldn't believe he was there, at last, to pull her away from the haze. Except that he didn't know how. And despite the agony, there were no tears as she whispered his name.

— "My Tristan"

— "Yes, wife. I am here."

And when the next pain came – damn, it was close – she just reached for his hand and crushed his fingers so strongly that he had to bite his tongue. Tristan was at loss, powerless to help her body work its magic, a sorry witness of an ordeal so primitive, so raw that he could do nothing. Well, nothing more than carefully lay down, his face mere inches from hers, holding her hand in an attempt to give her strength. And on and on it went, wave after wave, her pants so silent in the gentle breeze, her body twitching to accommodate the power of mother earth. And even though there was nothing more he could do, and his side hurt like hell now that the thrill of the battle had worn off, Tristan's eyes never left hers. Silent, as always, more present than he had ever been. Oblivious to the world around them, to villagers and women crying, to Arthur's messengers ordering them back to the Wall, to babes wailing and children yelling victory.

Then something changed. Terrifying. Her body spasmed violently, and her breathing became erratic, stopping for long moments of time altogether. At once, Tristan sat, a groan of pain passing his lips. Did this cart have to move so fast, or was it the world spinning around him? Somewhere above him, Isolde followed at her own pace, sending him a shrill cry to convey her support. The knight shook his head; he might have zoned out for a moment. But Frances…

— "Vanora !", he cried, panic sending waves of heat through his battered body.

— "Right here, you moron. Don't shout"

Lifting his eyes, Tristan realised the redhead had never left the wagon. Damn, he must really be out of it.

— "She's not breathing!"

— "She's pushing, it takes a toll on the body."

And Tristan could only shut his mouth, realising, for the first time, the sheer power the Gods had bestowed upon women.

— "Sit, put your back to the side of the wagon, I think she's ready."

And Frances' cheeks gained colours again as she rose by herself, life returning to her, and crawled to rest her back to his chest. His wince didn't go unnoticed, neither the hiss of pain, but either women were too busy to handle it right now. Frances braced herself; it was as if she didn't think anymore, obeying mother nature in the most primitive of ways as she opened her legs to Vanora, and grabbed both of his hands in a vice grip.

— "Go on, Frances, you can do it," her improvised midwife said.

And the contractions spaced out a bit, giving her time to breathe while she pushed the baby out with all her might, oblivious to the ears and eyes set upon them, ignoring the stares upon her half-naked form. Tristan, though, distributed a few glares that settled the matter, until his hands got crushed again, and his side twisted by the strength of his wife pushing against him. And he couldn't help but marvel at the tremendous power of a woman as she shuddered and trembled in his arms. Such courage, for she never cried out, even though this baby was tearing her body apart.

Tristan had never been one of those men that considered women weak. He was born in Sarmatia, where shamans and women were respected and revered for their power. But today … today he was understanding the full extend of what it meant. As terrifying as it was beautiful. And he could only hope that his presence helped her, for the fearless warrior, the man who had taken so many lives, couldn't do shit when it came to giving it. Yet he held on, and pushed against her to give her leverage, holding her tight as she shook from the strain.

— "Good," Vanora said, and she wiped Frances' brow with her sleeve.

Another contraction came, then another. Both their bodies coiled as one, both making their very best effort to welcome this baby into the world. And still Frances pushed and trembled, crushing his fingers, gritting her teeth as he clenched his jaw. Then she sagged against him in surrender, taking a long-needed breath and despite the pain pulsating in his ribs, Tristan froze.

End of the battle.

A long, heart-wrenching wail tore his sensitive ears, Vanora's smiling face presenting a newborn, still attached to his mother by an ugly whitish cord. His heart soared. Speechless, Tristan's hawk eyes could only contemplate the reddish baby that landed in Frances' arms. Exhausted, she received the wailing child, grateful for his additional support as he circled them both to help her hold him. And Tristan kissed Frances' brow, speechless, hoping to convey the depth of his gratitude. His beautiful wife, how courageous she was…

— "You have a son," Vanora said.

Tristan started, mesmerised by the baby's gaze as he opened his deep blue ones to peek at them. There was an ocean of emotions, of curiosity held within and he couldn't help but marvel at the tiny human that he had called into the world with the strength of his love. A son. Lancelot was right. Smiling, the stunned scout found his voice again.

— "Hey," he greeted his son. "You are free."

And Isolde gave them a piercing screech, but the baby still watched his father's face, soothed by the silky tone of his voice.

— "He is perfect," his wife said.

Tristan hummed his assent, kissing her anew with a tenderness he usually kept from public places. But today was special. Today, he welcomed his son into the world. A child who would grow to be free, without the threat of being a slave. Here, there would be no Rome, no Saxons and no Sarmatia dominated by Romans. Here, they would make their home, and their children would be free.

Flabbergasted, the knight realised that he could have as many sons as he wanted, for none of them would be tied like he had been. Well, provided Frances still wanted him after going through THAT. And for a long time, Tristan contemplated his wife and son as the babe suckled at her breast, counting little fingers, caressing the sensitive skin of his newborn, whiffing at his peculiar scent, offering a chaffed finger that the baby held tightly. There was no stronger miracle than what he'd just witnessed. Women were magic.

When at last, the pain of his injury dislodged him from behind his family, Tristan crawled from his resting place against the side of the cart. Every muscle ached, bruises and scratches stinging now that exhaustion threatened to floor him. Then his eyes landed on the pool of blood at Frances' feet, a trickle still sliding down her legs. There was so much … so much, probably much more than what he had ever lost himself. Aghast, Tristan felt the world spin around him.

— "Vanora, there's too much blood."

And the knight passed out.

On the day when Arthur and Guinevere were married, Evhan – freedom, in Sarmatian – was presented to the world as the first free Briton born on King Arthur's soil. And despite Lancelot's death, Tristan proudly held his son in his arms, sending a word to the heaven to tell that cad of a knight that he had been right all along.

His wounded ribs still ached, and lack of sleep certainly didn't help the recovery, but in his chest now resided warmth he had been chasing all his life. The sense of purpose, of belonging. And whenever Frances looked at them both, he could still see pride in her eyes, and he wasn't jealous that she now looked at their son as if he was the most precious thing in the world. For that chubby little man was the light of his days and the bane of his nights. Still, he wouldn't change it for the world. Tristan had found his place, and was now a proud father who would think thrice before getting in the thick of battle.

His family looked up to him, and he thrived to be worthy of them. Perhaps, if he managed, Frances would be amenable to more…


	14. Chapter 12 - Seamstress in distress I

**Hey people. I hope you are all safe and sound, and not going crazy in these difficult times of lockdown. Since I obviously am going nuts, I wrote this (short, I'll keep it short, promise !) love story to cheer myself up. I hope it works for you too.** **I know I should be working on more elaborate stuff but hey... this is what you get :)**

Hawk's piercing cry startled the scout out of his daze, earning a swear word in Sarmatian. Another threat was the last thing he needed right now! A good bath, plenty of rest and loads of bandages upon the multiple injuries he had sustained being on top of the list. The price of dispatching a band of scouting woads. Bruised and lacerated in too many places to count, Tristan kept his exhaustion at bay by gritting his teeth. Soon enough, he'd be at the wall, make his report to Arthur and pass out in the infirmary while the healers patched him up properly. Then he would sleep for three days in a row. Four, maybe…

Unfortunately, the Gods had decided to deny him the rest and drop a new ordeal in his lap. Another screech came from above, Hawk soaring so high that he nearly couldn't spot her. Nearly. Tristan urged his horse to a gallop; if another group assaulted him, he might very well succumb this time. Exhaustion, blood loss and bruises had greatly impaired his ability to fight. A few bandits he might be able to handle, but warriors would have his skin if they attacked in numbers. Especially those blue painted devils.

Grinding his jaw to tolerate the pain and handle the gallop's movement, Tristan distinguished the cries of a woman covering the pounding of hooves. A turn on the road later, he was rather shocked to stumble upon a scuffle. At once, he pulled the reins of his mare who neighed in protest, barely avoiding running over the little group of men on the ground. Cries arose, covering the desperate feminine pleas.

Four men. One woman, thrown upon the ground, her dress torn at the collar and face smeared with tears and dirt. Reddish strands were strewn over her face, partially hiding the reddened eyes and bruises forming at her throat. But not enough for the fearsome scout not to notice. One of her legs, long and elegant, exposed white flesh that seemed peachy soft. Her hands were held by a man; her claws had dug creases over his arm and face if the red lines were an indication.

This was not what Tristan was expecting.

His appearance caused all present people to pause for a suspended moment. The young woman used it to her advantage, backing away furiously and throwing her foot into one of the men's face. Her attacker roared in pain, backhanding her with so much force that she fell upon the road, stunned.

Jumping down his mare, Tristan unsheathed his sword with a purposeful move, all aches forgotten. Rage flew through his veins; the scout was no stranger to violence. He relished in extinguishing life efficiently, drank in the thrill of battle like nectar, washing his blade in the blood of his enemies. Men or women made no difference; any warrior that measured up to him met his end by his blade. But there was no duplicity in his heart. Despite rumours, Tristan wasn't cruel, nor sadistic. He killed, as quickly and efficiently as possible, whomever accepted to attack him. A warrior's honour, in which the assailant bowed to the skill of his opponent. May the best win.

Rape and unfair advantage would never come close to the acceptable. Even when he took a wench in his bed, sometimes a tad roughly, Tristan didn't press his greater strength to subdue. His honour was to kill in battle, not to dominate a poor woman. Four against one… Four grown men over a young, weaker one. The scout spat his disgust on the ground.

Despicable.

Unacceptable.

Criminal.

Not that he cared about the young woman, no. But this show of cowardice couldn't remain unpunished.

— "Release her at once, or meet your death," he ground out.

Two of the men lifted their head from their amusement; a stunned woman spread on the muddy ground. Their eyes widened in astonishment. Covered in blood as he was, jaw clenched and eyes burning from the offence, Tristan marched upon them like an angel of death. The leader, though, still tangled against white, inviting flesh, sneered at him without even looking.

— "Leave, 'tis none of yer business."

Tristan's eyes flashed. So be it, let the weak and stupid return to the ground. He was bone weary, too tired for any setback to last too long. He wanted a bath, and some rest, not to wrestle in the mud with obvious bandits. His blade lifted swiftly, dispatching the leader with a neat slice to his throat. The man collapsed upon his victim, a crimson fountain splashing her dress. The others reacted to the aggression by springing to their feet. Another one fell before he could even stand. The second one had the gall to attack him; he was writhing on the floor with a mighty dash slicing his chest not a moment after. The fourth one, more intelligent than the others, attempted to flee, his eyes widened in fear. A dagger caught his back neatly. The man had ample time to contemplate Tristan's boots as the scout retrieved the blade embedded in his upper back before the world went black.

The scout wiped his blade on his victim, his movements stiffer now the battle was over. Somewhere above his head, Hawk screeched again in reassurance. Tristan sheathed his beloved weapon before turning around, wondering if he should leave the young woman to fend for herself now that the threat had been eliminated. This was the plan. What he should have done. Perhaps he could send his brothers to retrieve her afterwards if she resumed her walk on the road. What care did he have for stupid women who travelled alone anyway? She would probably be out for some time anyway after the blow she received, or spend hours crying her fright away. Enough for Lancelot to find her and display his many charms. Woo her … maybe. Then break her heart. Who cared?

Tristan turned around, intent of walking back to his mare. His steps heavy, muscles aching from the exertion of the past days.

'Leave her here,' his exhaustion exhorted him.

Tristan nodded to his conscience. And albeit he knew he shouldn't have, he couldn't resist the pull that caused him to look back. A pair of terrified eyes met his intense gaze. Wide chocolate pools upon a trembling face who refused to back down. Shock caused her whole frame to shake, her lower lip wavering, its rosy hue marred with blood. Her trembling hands clutched the tattered dress over her body, her legs still exposed as the woollen garment creased at the waist. The woman was so frightened that he expected her to faint. But she didn't, and she wouldn't release him from her intense scrutiny.

Tristan sighed, and slowly stepped closer. By then, he clearly saw the lines of her face harden as she took in his dreadful state. Old blood encrusted on his skin and clothes. Fresh crimson, the same that covered her chest, marred upon his clothes. His eyes barely visible under the unruly hair and braids that kept it out of his face, the hard lines of his features. She should have retreated away from him. In her state of shock, he expected her to cry out in fear or yell at him to back off.

She didn't.

Tristan approached her as he would a wounded animal. She didn't move an inch. And despite the horrible bruise on her cheek and throat, the dirt and tears, her matted hair and puffy eyes, he found the lines of her face disturbingly elegant. Just like the curve of her calf, prolonged by tiny, well-proportioned feet.

Kneeling close to her, Tristan's eyes kept her gaze trapped as he slowly reached for the woollen garment of her dress. The woman tensed, interrogating him now. She was at his mercy, too tired to fight, aware that he overpowered more than these men ever could. Her milky white thighs exposed, her flesh inviting … tempting him to touch their warmth, their softness. His long fingers closed upon the fine fabric and then, only then did she close her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks without a noise, her body still shaking as she repressed her sobs.

She wouldn't fight. He knew it, felt it. Like a female wolf submissive in front of the alpha. He knew that she was too exhausted, too emotionally spent to oppose him. A surrender; an honour of sorts, for she had fought those men tooth and nails, but would allow him to have her. Tristan's hand gently pulled the dress over her legs, the gesture so tender that he marvelled at his own ability. His whole body ached but he couldn't tear his gaze away from her lovely face. The pure terror of her expression called his inner self to protect.

Tristan stood with a grunt, tugging at her hand. The young woman stood on wobbly legs, her balance uncertain and he hoisted her into his arms with a grunt. His screaming muscles insulted him profusely, yet he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Especially when her arms wound themselves around his neck. The exhausted scout manoeuvred the young lady upon his mare, thanking the animal for taking this extra weight. The wall wasn't too far, and she was light. Still, it was an extra effort for his loyal steed who had gone through three days of scouting without much rest.

— "Hold tight," he murmured to the young woman.

She shuddered against him as he managed to mount his mare and place her in his lap. A click of his tongue, and they his mare started walking again. By now, fresh blood was seeping from his armoured leather to her dress, adding extra taints to her ruined garment of the finest wool. The lady trembled in his arms, huddled against him so tightly that he hissed. Her embrace rubbed many of his wounds but there was not much he could do expect bear them. She, as well, probably ached from the bruises forming upon her. His hand brushed her arm when he reached for the reins, and Tristan realised that the young woman was frozen. Either from the shock, or from her lack of a protective cloak.

The scout pulled his heavy cape around them both, shielding the lady from the cold with a dusty, muddy, bloody layer of wool that smelt like death and horse. She didn't protest, melting against him with a shake of her head. But not before sending him a very confusing look. For up close, the gleam in her eyes couldn't be mistaken. Trust.

— "Thank you," she uttered her teeth chattering.

Tristan nodded, gritting his teeth as the extra weight pulled at his numerous wounds. One of his ribs was probably cracked.

For a long while, neither of them said a thing. Then, gradually, her trembling subsided. The young woman's posture straightened, easing the toll upon his own battered body as her weight didn't rest so heavily upon his.

Tristan never knew what pushed him to strike a conversation, for nothing could be further from his habits. His curiosity, though, won over his mind. And it would prevent him from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But his skills left to be desired still, hence the gruff sentence that passed his lips.

— "You shouldn't travel alone, it is not safe."

The young woman had the gall to snort, wiggling in his embrace and hitting his bruised ribs in the process. Tristan's hiss of pain got drowned in her own rant.

— "Neither is home. They would marry me off to this horrible Roman. A disgusting man, I couldn't… I couldn't."

— "The alternative wasn't much better."

His voice was stern, the words cut deeper than it should and the young woman suddenly tightened his blood caked cloak around her as if it could protect her.

— "I was so close to the wall, I've been careless, walking on the road," she whispered.

The scout's eyes roamed the surroundings, looking for threats. Ever watchful, even if they were now close enough to Hadrian's wall.

— "How long have you walked?" he asked.

— "Four days."

His beard tickled her ear when he nodded, his contact strangely comforting despite the heavy equipment and metal scales. A safe anchor after the hardships of the past days…

Intertwined under the heavy cloak, Tristan couldn't understand why her arms felt so comfortable over his battered body, nor how her warmth seeping through the leather of his pants brought him solace. Despite the discomfort of his wounds, the knight found the simple contact, devoid of any lust or seduction, puzzling. Hence the soft tone of his voice as he spoke.

— "I'll get you to the wall."

The woman seemed to literally deflate against him, her trembling starting anew. She had, after all, barely escaped defilement and death at his hands. Perhaps the experience was starting to seep into her soul, branding it, forever marked. Had her innocence crumbled before, or was it the first straw?

— "Thank you, sir," she whispered her breath fanning against his collarbone.

Tristan tightened his hold with his left hand, ignoring the pang it sent through his side.

— "I am Tristan, no sir."

— "All right sir, Tristan."

The knight sent her a glare, hoping to convey that he was a man not to be mocked. Curiously, instead of cowering away, she met his gaze head on with a wavering smile.

— "I can't help but respect the man who saved my life, and denied the urge to take advantage of me."

A gleam of steel shone in her eyes, a determination that quelled Tristan's anger. Her respect wasn't false nor misplaced. For once in his life, he could actually accept her admiration; if not for him, her fate might have been sealed in the most gruesome way.

— "I am Frances," she eventually said.

Tristan nodded wearily. Exhaustion was slowly but surely washing through him, and keeping himself on the saddle took a toll that didn't leave much room for conversation. For sure, he'd never talked so much before. Silence settled for a while, the young woman trying to keep herself upright as well. Riding sideways on someone's lap probably was as uncomfortable for her than for him, and her frame still shook from time to time. Not that he could do anything about it.

When at last, they emerged from the forest and the Wall soared above them, the young woman gasped. For a second, Tristan wondered if he should have her dismount and enter the city by herself. Passing unnoticed would surely benefit her condition greatly… His hopes were dashed the moment her trembling voice reached him.

— "Will I be safe at the wall … from men?"

The knight frowned. He had to admit she had perspective, and asked the right questions. The only issue being that … no. She was far too lovely to be safe from men, especially being a lone woman. At best, she would end up as a tavern wench, serving meals at day, whoring at night. Lancelot would probably try to woo her to death. And leave her afterwards, heartbroken.

Tristan's silence lingered, heavy, upon their heads. And despite his horrendous smell – it discomfited his sensitive senses – her arm snaked around his back and she huddled against him, searching for his warmth. Her move startled him; was she seeking reassurance from him? Of all men, he was the one to which she entitled her trust?

Word blurted out of his mouth before he could squash them mercilessly.

— "Say you are my woman, that will keep men away."

Horrified by his own proposal, Tristan could only stare at Frances' bruises features as her jaw hung open.

— "But your wife sir…"

— "I am not allowed to be married until my service to Rome ends."

Little fingers settled on his armoured collarbone, her eyes searching for his. Tristan met her inquisitive glance without flinching.

— "Surely you have a lover."

Tristan almost snorted. The naïveté of her words would have coaxed a laugh out of him, so long ago. But she truly believed he deserved a woman to love him; it was written, clear as day, upon her features. Her arrival at the wall would lift her blindness soon enough. There, she would withdraw her trust and learn how feared, how heartless the scout truly was. There she would hear stories and rumours, some of them partially true, and shy away from him until she trembled from his presence. Left to wonder why the ruthless scout, the man who relished in the fight, had not raped and killed her when he had the chance.

In the meantime, he could provide his protection. A masquerade that engaged his name and reputation, and would keep the little woman safe enough from Romans and other patrons.

— "Are you much respected at the fort?" she asked shyly.

Tristan braced himself for the truth; that illusion of being a knight in shining armour had warmed his heart while it lasted; a break from heartache and self-loathing. Sadly, it couldn't be further from the truth. His voice was harsh when he answered.

— "I am feared. This is enough."

She only nodded. Afraid. The knight didn't linger on it; he was used to the fear and contempt. His fatigued mind, instead, was already busy finding solutions. Not that he cared about the woman, mind you. But it wasn't worth it if she got raped and ruined after he'd gone out of his way to save her life.

— "You are noble, you know how to sew?"

She didn't ask him how he knew. The material of her dress and perspective of a forced marriage was evidence to whomever was intelligent enough to put the pieces together.

— "Aye, sir, more than most"

There, the solution looked him in the face. How convenient.

— "The seamstress will have you, she owes me."

The young woman turned to the wall, her wary eyes taking in the looming shadows projected by the massive structure. Her jaw squared, her fingers fisting his cloak as she took her decision.

— "Thank you, sir. I will be the seamstress's apprentice, and your woman if you allow it."


	15. Chapter 14 - Seamstress in distress II

**Hey, here is the continuation of this little story. It will probably run for 4 parts... inspiration, again :p Better to run after yummy Tristan than to consider the end of the world at the moment. Phew.**

Five days passed since the knight delivered her upon the seamstress doorstep. Enough for her bruises to start fading. Enough for a clean-up – there was no bathtub here – some needed sustenance, and for her mind to come to terms with the situation. Her long, reddish hair was braided now, hidden under a cap. Her coarse woollen dress had belonged to another; it hid her form well enough, as well as her former status. Rendered her a shadow amongst the people of the fort, head bowed, a servant of little lineage. Her mother always said that nobility was earned, not inherited, and that it came from within. Now, there was nothing that could remotely sell her ties to a Roman family. Except for her hands, fine and delicate, so unlike a working woman.

While the seamstress berated her about her choice of company, the middle-aged woman couldn't be happier with her new apprentice. And albeit she suspected Frances to be of noble descent – stitching never lied and it certainly left nothing to be desired – she wouldn't say or word nor ask a question. The seamstress' fear of the scout was enough to refrain her curiosity … but not so much that she couldn't warn her young charge about his ways. They said him cruel, ruthless and sadistic. The silent knight certainly could instil fear in anyone's heart with barely a look: imagination supplied the rest. But she owed him her life and that of her son, so the seamstress kept her mouth shut.

Frances, for her part, wasn't more talkative than the taciturn scout. She listened, nodded and learnt the tricks of an experienced professional with curiosity. Before leaving, Tristan had pressed how important it was that no one knew about her, not even his commander Arthorius Castus for he would be bound to bring her back home. Frances could only agree; if her father had an inkling of her location, she would be dragged back to the despicable betrothed.

As the needle flew in her hands, thread mending fabric much coarser than she was used to, Frances wondered if the scout had forgotten about his proposal. She'd spotted him in the morning, hair askew and weapons at the ready on his long leather vest; he was buying apples at a stall. The pronounced limp in his gait had caused her to worry; had he been wounded that day? In her daze – the aftermath of her ordeal – she had forgotten to look for signs. Now that she replayed their encounter without the veil of fear, she couldn't help but remember his winces and hisses of pain as they rode. And his slightly stiff manner when he'd knelt beside her, his warm fingers replacing the dress over her exposed legs. A frown marred her features when he left the market.

Would he keep his promise? The seamstress alone wouldn't be able to pass the message on; the little shop saw too little people for them to start spreading a rumour, and she wasn't daft enough to sing it at the top of her lungs. She wasn't about to dub herself the "scout's woman" in the market place; shyness and upbringing recoiled at the very notion. After all, the scout's reputation was fiery; messing with it could only be dangerous. Better to let him handle things his way; he knew the terrain – the fort and its people – and her enemies.

Little did she know that, late in this afternoon, Tristan was scrubbing himself raw at the bathing house. Washing his skin with a little more care than was necessary. All because now, at long last, his wounds were clear of infection and he could soak in warm water. Nothing to do with his hesitation to bring the new apprentice to the tavern, of course. Could he let it go? Trust the seamstress to keep her safe in her little shop, and fend the Romans away? No. He'd spotted her at the market out of the corner of his eye; he wasn't the only one. Other had followed her lovely silhouette, eying the tiny waist and assumed long legs with envy.

Despite the coarse woollen dress and the modest neckline, despite the handkerchief covering her reddish hair, her noble poise and features stood out. Her posture, especially, sold her breeding; it oozed out of her form. He'd been truthfully surprised that she had not protested about being an apprentice at the seamstress. Most Roman nobles would have sneered at the idea to work for one's living. Instead, she had thanked him profusely, grateful for the opportunity for food, shelter and a proper work. Good. The woman was clever enough to possess some clarity; she was under no illusion of what could become of a lovely maiden in the streets. Many men would pay to subdue a former noble, relishing in the possibility to humiliate one of the well-off girls they usually had to bow to. The opportunity for a well deserved revenge…

Working at the seamstress would save her life and she would play the part. The memory of the proud gleam in her eyes, though, told him of her resilience. She was bound to be noticed by others than himself. Even if he was the most perceptive of them all; it only gave him a head start.

Frowning intently, the scout stood in the bathhouse, water pooling at his waist. Angry red lines marred his chest and back on the left side, dark hair covering his pectorals and lower belly. His long hair dripped along his lean muscles, braids unfastened, droplets forming a trail along his upper back before plunging back in the pool. Romans looked upon his form with contempt, disgust barely hidden in their dark eyes. Beardless and shaved; he was a barbarian to them, a Sarmatian dog. The wildest of his brothers – if not the biggest – a savage beast to them delicate overgrown children. Romans loved little boys, purity and flawless skin. They loved their women depilated, white milky skin upon soft skin. Not unlike the seamstress's apprentice.

Fire pooled beneath his sore muscles, fists tightening under the surface.

A word was a word. No matter if it complicated things. Tristan was no coward.

Sir Tristan's appearance at the shop send the seamstress into a fit of coughing. And despite her fear, the little woman's protectiveness soared forth, displaying courage that earned the knight's respect just as well as his ire.

— "Are you sure it is safe to associate her with the likes of you?" she glared at the man.

Frances gasped at the blatant insult, her reddening cheeks – he had asked her to come to the tavern ! – swiftly reflecting her anger. The knight didn't need her indignation for he strode to the seamstress and faced her, his body swift and supple. His voice was as calm as the surface of the lakes littering the countryside, smooth and deep. But one couldn't ignore the darkness that lurked within.

— "She is my woman. She will do as I see fit."

The seamstress shrunk under his glare, and Frances started to understand what people meant regarding the scout. No more was said as ripped the cap out of her braids to throw it on the counter before leading her in the cobbled street. The evening was mild, the weather undetermined as was his wont to be in this island. The setting sun promised for a colder night, but for the moment, an orange glow bathed the fort with its glorious hues. She knew the light would set fire to her hair, but didn't expect it to paint his darker one with rusty colours. Discreetly, she stole a glance at the man beside her. Washed and tamed, braids neatly done, Tristan's hair looked almost soft. His tattoos stood out upon the defined cheekbones – for once free of loose strands – his eyes a shade of undetermined colour that ranged from grey to amber. He was much taller than she was, and his proud gait certainly didn't make him more accessible. Still, she could discern the remains of a limp.

Her fingers reached for his arm and the knight stilled, sending her an inquisitive look. Damn, his scrutiny was so intense that she almost forgot her name. Which, in retrospect, could be an idea.

— "You didn't tell me you were hurt, sir."

He accepted the title without protest this time.

— "It wasn't relevant," he responded smoothly.

His voice washed over her like the silks she used to wear before her demise, and she could only comply when he asked her – no, ordered – to turn around. She felt long fingers deftly untying the cord of her braids, his hands running into the long reddish strands to splay them over her back. His gestures were gentle, focused, and so intimate that… Registering the shock, Frances turned around abruptly.

— "What …?"

— "People must recognise you easily. It is a statement that you belong to me."

Belong, what a horrible concept! Scrunching her nose, the young woman nodded, passing a hand into her mane to entangle the curls with the force of habit. Tristan's eyes followed her movement, his expression unreadable until he seemed to shake out of his haze and start walking anew. Well … striding anew, for his legs were awfully long. Rather than yell at him to slow down, Frances reached for his arm and linked it through hers, hoping it would give him the measure of her own steps. It did, and for a moment, they progressed in the streets under watchful gazes. It was oddly comfortable to walk by his side, her fingers looped around his leather vest. For the first time, Frances realised that she trusted a man.

There were many frowns upon people's face, disapproving, curious and incredulous alike. Perhaps she was wrong … perhaps she shouldn't. Frances shrunk beside the knight, almost starting when he addressed her.

— "You need to play the part, little lady. My brothers in arms are rowdy and crude. If you want my protection, you must be ready to face them."

— "All right. I am ready."

Tristan lifted an eyebrow – the challenge gleaming in his eyes – and she suddenly noticed how faintly marked they were. Like a touch of a bird's feather hoovering over his amber eyes, a shade of dark blonde usually buried under his unruly fringe.

— "Then I will make my claim upon you."

His smooth voice sent shivers down her spine, preventing her mind to acknowledge his words. And without giving her time to process what it exactly meant, Tristan strode to the tavern's open court and settled at the knight's table. Her eyes barely had time to take in the layout and the different mops of curls – or shaved heads – of the knights before he swept her legs and pulled her into his lap. Whistles erupted from the other side of the table – his brothers in arms, probably. Shocked by the expense of body that now touched hers, Frances gulped and buried her face in the crook if his neck, cheeks flaming red. The respectable lady in her – raised with manners and a strong sense of dignity – was bleeding on the floor, eyes wide with shame, while her feminity couldn't help but feel the warmth, the strength seeping from his tall frame. And his scent, a mix between olive soap and something more masculine, lurking behind the scented oils of the bathhouse, surrounded her, asking for surrender.

And surrender she did. The choke hold slightly loosened as she breathed out, realising the intelligence of the scout's action. Her outrage abated somehow; if Tristan had warned her, she would have recoiled. She might have sat by his side, all noble and Roman looking – thank God her mother was an Irish lady – and not one of this rowdy crowd would have bought the act. If they wanted this scheme to succeed, she couldn't afford to act coy but damn … it took all her will power, and the assault to her senses, to tame the reflex to push him away and run. It went against everything she had been raised… But when she managed to calm her racing heart, Frances realised that the contact wasn't as uncomfortable as she thought.

Many words were exchanged around the table, some Latin, some Briton, and some in a language she didn't understand. Sarmatian, maybe? Another one she should learn if she wanted to blend in at the fort.

Tristan didn't participate, his body slightly moving as he lifted an arm to signal a tavern wench for food. She was grateful for the time he gave her to come to terms with this … ploy. When at last, Frances found the courage to lift her face, the scout stilled. His whole body tensed, muscles flexing against hers, his clean shirt opening slightly to reveal dark curls upon his chest. His hand came to rest upon her upper back, seeping warmth and reassurance. And when he spoke, his deep voice caused his brothers to settle, their voices dying.

— "My little lady is shy. Mind your tongue"

There, the claim was made, and met with unearthly silence. Then the knights started talking all at once, some lifting their mugs in her direction, others eyeing her suspiciously. Tristan's hold tightened around her, his hands careful not to grope any uncomfortable part of her – that man had honour, at least! His contact brought solace, just like he had after saving her from … rape. Repressing a shudder, Frances eventually started to study the other knights sitting at the table. They were only four of them, not a thousand like the noise suggested. A bald man, barrel chested with a very loud mouth, a young one with wild dark curls, a tawny-haired knight with hair longer than hers and a kind face seated on their right. The last one shared common traits with some Romans she'd met, except that he sported a dark goatee and dark curls, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

— "Lancelot."

Tristan's whisper caressed her ear, startling her. How did the scout know her eyes were set on the dark knight in front of them? Did anything escape him at all? Angling her head, she searched the scout's eyes for further explanation. The intensity of his smouldering gaze caused her breath to hitch; she had forgotten his face would be so close to hers. Never before had she sat on another man's lap … not even her father as a child such was her loathing of the man. But here it seemed that tavern wenches took turns trying men's laps. Whores or girlfriends with little manners? Was she supposed to impersonate such a girl?

From there, she could distinguish the streaks of hazel into Tristan's light brown gaze. Flustered, she couldn't detach her attention from him, her breath fanning upon his face. The scout's eyes slightly tightened in the corner, as if he was inwardly laughing, before his calloussed fingers brushed a stray strand of her hair aside. The gesture was tender, his hand so warm that she closed her eyes in rapture. Slowly, he followed the reddish curl with his fingers, brushing her back from shoulder to waist before his hand settled at her hip. Frances barely refrained a moan, slowly melting against the knight whose contact caused her skin to tingle. Damn, the man certainly knew how to put on a show!

— "Be wary, he's a womaniser."

His voice caressed her senses, sending her in another world altogether until his hand retreated, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Frances opened her eyes.

— "Uh?"

— "Lancelot"

Realisation dawned. Right, the dark knight across the table was Lancelot, and Tristan was warning her to stay away – as is she would meet a knight of her own volition ! Frances almost wished he wouldn't be so very distracting while doing so but the scout was doing a very good job at convincing people she belonged to him. Fortunately, a red-haired woman, also known as Vanora, settled two bowls of stew and mugs of ale in front of them. Her quiet thanks earned her a very curious look before the woman was whisked away in the busy tavern.

— "Vanora, she is Bors' lover."

— "And the mother of his ten children," added the blond knight with long tawny hair. "I'm Gawain, it is nice to meet a woman crazy enough to accept our scout,"

Frances smiled, nodding to the gentle-looking knight without a word. What could she possibly answer that? If even Tristan's brothers demeaned him … well, she felt bad for the man who has saved her life, and went out of his way to ensure her safety now. Ignoring Gawain's comment, Tristan dislodged her from his lap rather abruptly so that they could partake in their meal. Was he angry? Or just naturally brusque? The change caught her off guard, as well as the sudden loss of contact. Not a word was exchanged between them as they ate, Frances' ears picking jokes and theories about their meeting. Tristan seemed impervious to teasing; yet she could see the whitening of his knuckles on the wooden spoon once in a while. Ill at ease, she ate the clear stew without much gusto, awaiting for the moment when she could retreat back to her tiny cot in the seamstress's shop.

The arrival two other knights, a cheerful redhead and a giant whose piercing eyes sent Frances' eyes back into her stew, changed the mood anew. His deep, rumbling voice echoed across the table as he introduced himself, his companion settling beside Galahad.

— "I am Dagonet, and this is Percival. I am pleased to meet Tristan's lady."

The title sent warmth to her chest and red to her cheeks; there was something noble in the idea to be a knight's lady. And albeit Dagonet's manners were gentle, his clear blue eyes settled on the scout with a loaded look. Had he seen through the scheme? Perhaps they should have awaited for the knights to be more inebriated; Galahad – the curly youngster – seemed much into his cups already. But not the giant. The man didn't keep conversation flowing either, settling on Frances' other side and ordering his own dinner. With such a frame, Frances wondered how much ale, or wine would be needed to get this knight drunk. Did Tristan ever get drunk? He didn't seem like a man who would enjoy losing control, but you never knew. Appearance could be deceptive… The first time she'd seen her father inebriated, she had not recognised him at all. Those horrid memories … she hoped they would fade with time.

Frances observed the scout by her side, silently eating as she fended off questions about their meeting, or the way they fell in love with each other. She tried to dodge them but Lancelot, in particular was relentless in his harassment, arguing that a pretty little thing like her would be much better suited to adorn his knees than the gruff scout's. Frances reined her tongue, using her quiet manners and shyness as an excuse, leaving the talking to Tristan who provided just the right amount of information to render it plausible. They had met in the forest near her village, she was now the seamstress's apprentice. Period.

But Lancelot didn't relent, and thus caused Frances' ire to rise. Men like him, thinking women only existed to embellish their life, made her itch for a knife. Perhaps a well aimed knee to the balls could fend him off…

— "I thank you for your compliments, kind sir, but I am not interested in any other man than the one I have," she eventually told him icily.

A laugh greeted her words, Galahad's drunken state causing him to find amusement in her irritated retort. But not Tristan. Perhaps her wording was too refined, the sentence too convoluted for the tavern. Had she stupidly sold herself? Was he angry that she had called him 'her man '?

The loud bang of a cup hitting the table startled the knights and many tables around them, all merriment dying instantly. Tristan was standing, his fist tightly woven around his mug. His glare, directed at Lancelot, sent shivers down Frances' spine. Had she been his spouse, the young woman might have tried to soothe the scout and smooth the other knight's feathers. As it was, she was rather unsure of how far her part was supposed to go. How would the untamable scout react to her interference? Better not to try in case he became violent.

— "When our service is over, we are to be married. I don't want to hear another word about it, understood?"

Galahad nodded vehemently, his eyes closing as the world probably started spinning around him. Gawain's clear 'Aye' was seconded by Bors, and Dagonet remained silent. The waves of anger that oozed out of the scout's still form were frightening. The staring contest between Tristan and Lancelot went on for a moment more until the dark knight relented.

— "Fine, fine! I was only jesting."

The scout released the mug on the table and whirled around, grasping her neck so swiftly that a squeak escaped her. His fingers curled at her nape, pulling her upright with a controlled move. There was no warning whatsoever before his full lips captured hers in an intense and angry kiss. All sense left her as her knees weakened, her hands finding his leather vest in a tight grip. His hot breath, laden with ale, barely concealed the taste of him – a delight! – as his tongue brushed her lips away, ravishing her mouth the moment she granted entrance. Stunned, Frances could barely respond to his ministrations; her toes curled, her muscles tense, a million sensations shooting through her veins. How could such a crude contact be so confusing? He invaded her entirely with his mouth, his sensual lips massaging hers, tongue swirling, caressing, coaxing… A whimper escaped her as her fingers tightened in a vice grip over his shirt; a desperate attempt to ground her essence. Her mind barely registered that his large hands held her so close that her whole body was flush against him.

Then, before she could even react, the kiss ended, leaving her as bereft as a sinking ship at sea. Breath short, eyes wide, she let him lead her out of the tavern in a haze. Behind them, whoops and whistles had invaded the place, but Tristan's quiet voice covered them easily.

— "The Romans have noted, as have the Britons. Go home now, little lady"

Frances bit her lip, finding it swollen and strangely … lonely. Her feelings were all over the place, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her. Fleeing, being beaten and almost raped, rescued and kissed senseless by a man whose reputation made shopkeeper trembling in their boots. Being left alone now of all time, flustered in this unknown place with no idea about the future was a mighty blow to her countenance. Her wide chocolate eyes begged him for his protection and Tristan gave her a levelled stare, searching her face. Then he sighed, relenting. This was the man whom people talked about, spreading tales of massacres and sadism?

As he offered his arm to take her home, the giant knight suddenly appeared by their side.

— "What happened?" he asked, clear blue eyes watching them both.

Tristan cocked his head aside like a little animal considering his options before answering.

— "She needs protection," he simply said.

And Dagonet nodded as they departed, the young woman clinging to his brother's arm so tightly that he feared for the scout's appendage. This little conversation meant everything or nothing at all, but Dagonet caught the meaning well enough. This is how Frances learnt that he was the only other knight the scout trusted.

Days passed, months even. Since Tristan never responded to the teasing, his brothers eventually got bored and stopped asking questions about his lady. Its novelty wore off, and even Lancelot, who never got a rise of Frances, decided that teasing Bors and Vanora was much nicer. The scout still came to the seamstress every few weeks, inviting her to partake lunch, or breakfast at the tavern's table to keep up the pretence. Sometimes, they talked at the market at the apple's stall. By then, Frances had got used to sitting in the knight's lap. Despite her earlier misgivings that she was not THAT kind of woman – a tavern wench – she had come to accept and enjoy the contact of Tristan's body against hers. Somehow, it felt a little unfair that everybody thought they slept together when, in fact, this was the boldest they had ever shared.

And sadly, he never felt the need to kiss her again.


	16. Chapter 15 - Seamstress in distress III

**Hey Koba, still planning the Italy trip? Everything all right for you overseas?**

**So, I was planning this chapter to be lovely and fluffy and it didn't quite go according to plan. Too bad, I had to adapt. Is it quite my fault that Tristan can be so incredibly annoying?**

**I don't know when the next chapter will be posted, I have a thousand things on the stove and not so much time at the moment with children at home. Good news (for me) is that my first novel might be published soon. Bad news is that it is in french, and might take up a lot of my spare time.**

The door banged, revealing an out of breath, blood splattered Gawain. Jumping in fright, Frances stabbed her finger with her needle with a curse she could only have heard from a Sarmatian knight. As her lips suckled the injured appendage, she took in the dreadful state of their intruder with wide, fearful, eyes. Frozen on the spot, she was grateful for the seamstress's quick reaction.

— "Good God, son, what happened to you?" asked the plump woman.

Gawain's breath came short as he nodded to the woman, hands braced on his thighs from the exertion; the seamstress' house was a good deal away from the fort.

— "Ambush… Tristan is badly wounded… Dagonet sent me."

At once, Frances stood, sending the shirt she had been mending to the floor. Her throat constricted painfully, and she turned to the seamstress with a plea.

— "Go to your betrothed, girl."

Her lovely face contorted in fear, she reached for her mistress' hand and squeezed fondly.

— "Thank you"

— "And take your cloak!"

Right. Snatching the heavy cape, Frances followed the knight out of the seamstress' little house. Her hands were trembling, probably from the cold winter day. Eight months since Tristan had rescued her from the bandits, eight months spent working as a seamstress where her only social life happened whenever he took her to the tavern or met her at the market. Tristan had become part of her landscape. The seamstress replacing her mother figure, and he … her betrothed. He didn't talk much, the taciturn scout, but they understood each other. Under the disguise of this ploy, they had come to some kind of understanding. Since they sought to spread rumours rather than avoid it, they could spend much time together without fear. The world upside down, especially for a woman who had been raised to keep her reputation intact until marriage. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant.

Tristan had introduced her to Hawk, his fearsome bird, at the top of the wall. They sometimes wandered, in and out of the fort, to keep people talking. Frances cherished those moments where her life was more than stitching and nature spread its wonders; with her protector by her side, she could enjoy the outdoors. The world he showed her was as beautiful as it was cruel, but despite his silent ways, they shared many moments of quiet discussion. She had never seen him fight, nor shoot. The only side of him she knew was the man who roamed the forest and talked to his bird. The silent witness of nature. It was peaceful, it brought her solace from the hassle of her past life.

In this blessed summer and autumn, Frances had nearly forgotten that blasted service to Rome. She knew how Vanora waited upon the wall for the knight's return whenever they left. Until now, Frances had never feared, confident that the scout would fulfil his duty and return to the fort. He was a pillar, an unshakeable figure of stability in her life. He couldn't be gone. What if …? She feared for Tristan, hoping he would be able to pull through without damage. As her heart constricted painfully, she realised that she shouldn't have cared that much. It was, after all, just a ploy? At least her reaction was realistic enough that no one would ever dare questioning her attachment.

By her side, Gawain walked uneasily, as if he struggled to follow her. Frances cursed herself, forcing her steps to slow down for the limping knight.

— "How badly are you injured, sir?"

— "I'm good enough, just got nicked in the leg. It doesn't need any stitches"

Accepting his words – albeit she suspected him to downplay his wound – Frances asked what happened. A veil suddenly seemed to settle upon his gentle features, anger and sadness reflected in his blue eyes. She seldom got to see it; the warrior beneath the man.

— "The woads were waiting for us, blast them! They got Percival before Tristan fired his first arrow."

Her steps faltered; her face suddenly pale.

— "What do you mean, they got him? He's going to pull through, right?"

Standing still, Gawain didn't even try to disguise the immensity of his grief. And despite the dryness of his eyes, the solemn look her directed at her told her the plain, ugly truth.

— "Percival is dead."

Frances gasped, bringing her hand before her mouth while tears pooled into her eyes. Percival, the gentle redhead who knew more poetry than even her former tutor? The man who sometimes talked to her gently without an ounce of flirting, treating her like a lady? Her fingers trembled, touching her lips incredulously as she, at last, understood what it meant to be a knight of the round table. How many had died already? Their numbers dwindled every day. Every single day. And she prayed that hers might be spared.

— "What of Tristan?"

Gawain resumed his walk.

— "A deep gash to the inner thigh."

A sharp breath filled her lungs; everyone knew that if the artery was split, there would be no tomorrow. But Gawain kept providing more details.

— "There was so much blood that we thought … we had lost him too. But he's stubborn, and still breathing. Hopefully he will make it. We thought … that maybe his lady could be persuasive"

Frances nodded, a derisive smile lifting the corner of her lips. For once hating that they had been lying to Tristan's brothers in arms. She was no lady of his, but she knew, clear as day, that no one else would be by his side while he recovered. She would play the part, and bestow her attention to return the favour of his protection. And pray for his wound to behave, and his body to remain clear of infection. Pray the lord, or any of his Gods.

Despite everyone's hopes, infection had settled, leaving Tristan unconscious as he fought the fever. In his delirium, the knight remained silent, hazy dreams coming and going with the waves of infernal heat that washed over his broken frame, followed by the icy clutches of death. Little hands he so seldom touched wiped his brow, a gentle voice humming songs he'd never heard; a solace in between the agony of bandage changing and wound drainage. In moments of consciousness, Tristan deplored that the gash was so deep; his thigh would never be the same even if the muscle mended on its own. Crippled! If he couldn't fight like the devil he was, then he would be buried soon enough.

His sleep was restless, every single muscle aching after fighting off this strong fever. But death had lost, once more, to the fierce scout. Tristan idly wondered when would come the day for him to surrender to the ripper. For the moment, though, a set of quiet voices lulled his wandering – and inconsistent – thoughts. A deep, rumbling sound that barely registered as words reverberated in his bones. Dagonet. The other one was nearly hushed, soft sounds covered by the crackling of the fire in the healing room.

Then there was a quiet rustle and retreating footsteps, followed by the shuffling of fabric close to his head. Silence anew, with nothing more than the amber's noise to fill the room. But the scout could feel her presence by his side, even though her breathing wasn't discernable. She was a quiet woman, yet her smell was unique. Eventually, Tristan's eyes opened to a low-lit room.

— "Why are you here?" he asked to the woman by his side.

His throat was parched, his question coming out like a growl. Locking eyes with him, the seamstress's apprentice searched his face, probably nonplussed by his abrupt remark.

— "Your brothers fetched me since I am your lady," she responded sternly.

— "It is just a ploy."

The young woman winced at the bitterness of his voice, levelling him with a hash look. For a moment, he thought she would throw the piece of cloth she had been working on into his face, and he was grateful that his vision slightly swam. It somehow abated the anger in her eyes. Then she abruptly disappeared from his field of vision, her long braid like a trail of fire down her back. The noise or rushing water being poured caused his body to lurch in delight; he had sweated all his liquid in the last few days and was as dry like a dead tree. The goblet was deposited carefully by the bedside; her elegant fingers leaving it as they reached for his back. Tristan braced himself, tensing his muscles to lift his sore neck as she presented the goblet.

The cool water washed over him like a river in the heat of summer but the sensation that threw him of the most was the gentle touch upon his nape. Her warm fingers supported him, curling with a firm, enveloping grip to help his aching body. Truth be told, Tristan wasn't used to being handled with such care. The last time someone had touched his nape ever so tenderly … his mother, probably, before he grew into a man. And the scarce wenches he took to his bed now – asking for the utmost secrecy under threat of a good beating – didn't even dare laying a finger upon him. Most of the time he led the dance, and whenever they did, there was nothing delicate in their lustful touch. It didn't help much when their faces morphed into the seamstress' apprentice.

— "More?"

Her voice almost startled him; he seemed to have dozed off for a moment. Or not, for her warmth still seeped through the base of his skull. Tristan grunted his assent and the sudden contact left, leaving him strangely bereft as she went to fetch another goblet of clear ice water. Once his thirst was quenched, the young woman resumed her post by his bedside, retrieving the piece of cloth she had been working on previously. Silence settled between them once more, a companionable silence only disturbed by the shuffled of fabric and the slight, stinging noise of her needle as it flew in her nimble fingers.

— "What are you doing?" a gruff voice asked.

The young woman's eyebrow lifted, her deep chocolate eyes sending him a thoughtful gaze. She didn't have to tell him how she had interrogated half the fort to lay hands upon Iazyges traditional patterns, or reworked them with the shape of Hawk's feathers.

— "Embroidering the collar of your new shirt"

Tristan frowned and she knew what was coming.

— "I didn't order a new shirt."

— "I know"

Her voice was sharp, her response brooking no arguments, closing the discussion effectively. Would he be stupid enough to refuse the gift? There was such a self-destructive streak in Tristan that it wouldn't surprise her the least.

— "You owe me nothing," he eventually said.

This time, Frances huffed loudly, but didn't stop the needle's movement. She couldn't interrupt her braid now lest she messed up the pattern. Frustrated, she realised she shouldn't have started such a difficult part of the collar knowing Tristan could wake up. He was, after all, always catching her off guard.

— "I owe you my life. I still owe it to you every day you keep the facade."

There was barely a grunt at that, and the knight closed his eyes. Frances finished her intricate braid, then tied a knot at the back to keep it from slipping away.

— "It is merely a gift to thank you, Sir Tristan."

— "I am not asking for gratitude."

His stubbornness called a fire within her, and she struggled with the sudden urge to bash him with the pitcher. Refraining the urge to hurl something at his head – he was wounded after all – she only sent him a death glare.

— "You'll have it all the same, you insufferable man."

The ghost of a smile quirked his lips at the name calling, yet he didn't open his eyes. How he confused her, this knight! Reaching for his sleeve – she didn't dare touching his hand – she swallowed nervously before speaking in a gentler tone.

— "I didn't come because I was summoned, I came because l was worried about you."

A pair of amber eyes suddenly trapped hers, pinning her in place with the immensity of their depths. Sadness and anger reined in masters within his soul, and her breath caught.

— "You shouldn't, I am not worth it."

Was this about Percival's death? Would the scout even talk about his fallen comrade rather than walling himself in grief? Frances steeled her spine, regaining her fire.

— "It is up to me to decide who I deem worth."

His head gently rolled, the movement tightening his features – pain – before he set his intense gaze on the ceiling. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate the orange hues playing with the shadows. Frances thought he would speak no more until a whisper surprised her.

— "I want no woman out of obligation."

'But you do want a woman,' she thought. Squeezing his forearm slightly, Frances struggled for a moment. The thoughts left her frighteningly exposed, especially before the fearsome scout who could break her with harsh words. Would she dare? Or keep it to herself and remained protected behind the walls of her mind?

— "What about affection and admiration then?"

It was almost tentative, so softly spoken that the scout wondered if he had dreamt it. Surely she couldn't mean that…

— "You know nothing about me."

And this time, it wasn't an accusation. It almost sounded like gentle probing, like a question. What do you even know about me to bestow your affection? Frances reclined in her seat, her work forgotten as she roamed her memories. She could have told him about the longing look in his eyes whenever he watched his bird flying free, or the satisfied hum when sunrays hit his face and warmed his tanned skin. About the way he always seemed to prowl, even when hiding an injury, or the careful look her sported around people, betraying his lack of trust in humanity. The gentle way he handled his animals compared to the harshness that sent people scurrying away. She knew how he enjoyed silence, giving him more room for observation rather than joining in the bantering of his fellow brothers, how he loved his blades and weapons that kept him safe. How, even, when his knife sliced an apple, his body slightly relaxed from the familiar routine. That he loved them crispy and juicy, for both the sweetness and the tasteful experience of biting in the flesh.

Frances' lips drew a timid smile upon her features; the scout wasn't the only observant one.

— "I know enough," she retorted.

His jaw tightened; the now familiar sign that he was about to lash out and deal some damage. Wondering why he felt the need to push her away, Frances braced herself for the explosion. Contrary to Bors, Tristan never yelled nor smashed things when angry – she'd seen it only once but had run home rather quickly that day. No, Tristan wasn't one to make a scene, but his voice dropped to a hiss, oozing venom upon his peers and, sometimes, upon her.

— "You think so, little girl, eh? You should listen to the tales."

She didn't know why his words sent her over the edge. Usually, she would have bitten her lip and lowered her eyes to hide the sting. Perhaps it was the fear of losing him, the tension of the past days eventually uncoiling. Perhaps she was feeling bolder today. Perhaps it was the pain of him crushing her feelings when she had exposed herself. Her stool went flying backwards, surprising them both when it clattered on the tiles. Her cheeks blazed with indignation, a gleam of steel shining in her eyes.

— "If I know nothing, neither do all those peasants talking nonsense. I have no care about rumours, Sir knight!"

Surprised by the intensity of her anger – there was a woman who could match his temper when unleashed – the scout rose upon his elbows, fuelling his ire with the pain that shot through from thigh to stomach.

— "But you should, you naïve girl! I am a peasant, just like them! I am no 'Sir'."

His accent, thicker when he lost his cool, caused him to stumble on his words. Her mouth rounded into a silent 'oh', understanding dawning upon her. Short breaths caused her chest to rise faster than usual, calling his attention to the small, rounded breasts he could peek at when she sat on his lap in the tavern. By her side, her fists gradually unclenched as she cocked her head aside. Something unknown washed over her lovely features, some kind of hope, as if she had unravelled the mysteries of the world.

Tristan sneered; foolish girl! She was too young, too innocent to imagine how Sarmatian people lived. Nomads with huts, hunting at will and barely surviving the harsh winters of the steppes. In her golden Roman palace, she had been pampered in silks. She called them peasants, those people of the wall! Couldn't she see the rudeness of his manners? How he wasn't suited to anything else than scouting and killing?

Her sudden movement caused him to flinch; he wasn't used to having someone by his side when he lay, vulnerable. She picked up the stool with careful movements, setting it upright without a noise. But she didn't sit again. Bending over him with a gentle sigh, she let her graceful fingers graze his cheeks, tracing the ink of his tattoo. Tingles erupted under his skin, her touch so welcome that he barely refrained closing his eyes and leaning into the warm palm of her hand.

— "They mean the same as in the Huns' culture, right?"

Tristan froze. So she knew. She knew that his lineage was considered like royalty in the Iazyges tribe. Damn that woman! Seeing the 'deer caught in the headlights' expression upon his face hardened her gaze, and she dropped her hand.

— "Understand this, Sir Tristan. My father is an educated man. A horrible, twisted educated man that thought that teaching me would allow him to make higher bids when it came to my marriage. I have nonetheless retained much of what my preceptors said. I do not call you 'Sir' because of the whim of a wounded girl."

A pang of regret settled in his chest, its origins rather fuzzy. Yes. He was, in fact, higher in status than she could ever hope to be. Second son to a line of chefs, the equivalent of a Khan. It didn't mean much, though, for in the steppes, chefs worked just as hard as their fellow tribesmen. There was no golden tent, no silks and no privileges for their wives. A life of duress he had left behind to become Roman's pawn, and today … today he couldn't even remember which of those lives he appreciated the most. Hence the guilt that gnawed at his insides, and the feeling of betrayal when he contemplated his youth. What was he, now?

— "Now, since my presence seems to be unwelcome, I bid you a good night, and the best of recoveries."

Gathering her work in a basket, she lay in his hands a single, red apple. A token of friendship. Her eyes didn't meet his again; he didn't search her gaze for fears of seeing tears. The seamstress's apprentice was back, hidden in the layers of softness and shyness. The steel stowed away. She wasn't the kind of woman who would bear arms; she'd fight her battles another way. He shouldn't be the kind of man who would take up arms to fight her, but he had.

The door clanged when she left, leaving him alone in the darkness. The low rumbles of a familiar voice in the corridor told him she had met a fellow knight, and was conversing with him. She knew them all by now, and as surprising as it was, didn't fawn over Lancelot. But then, given her revelations this very night, she was more acute than he had given her credit for. No wonder she didn't buy Lancelot's act. Frances was a practical, intelligent woman who knew what a romance with the dark night would entail; heartbreak, loneliness, a stained reputation and maybe a child. Better to stick by his side.

Mulling over her departure, Tristan tried to make heads or tails of … them. The little seamstress was used to sitting in his lap by now; she didn't get flustered so much now. But he never kissed her again; she had been sweet and delicious under his tongue, but kissing her meant more than he was willing to give.

The short burst of cold hair – damn winter! – escorted Dagonet inside the room, the giant knight settling on the stool where his little lady had sat but a moment before.

— "What have you done, you stubborn fool?"

Tristan scowled.

— "Scared her off. She needed it."

The tall knight gave him a stern look that should have been scary had Tristan not known he could take him anytime with a sword, and that no harm would come his way until he was recovered. Over his brothers, Dagonet was the only sensible one.

— "How stupid do you intend to be?"

From any other man, this comment would have bought a dagger into one's gut. But coming from Dagonet, the comment struck closer to home than should have been possible; perhaps because the scout actually listened to his elder.

— "I am not that kind of man," he growled, bitterness seeping through his hushed tones.

The giant's quiet enquiry sent shivers down his spine.

— "What kind of man?"

Tristan mused over his answer, swirling his tongue in his mouth; he very rarely said words he regretted. There was something frightening in his future, something he'd been pushing back from the day his mare had set a hoof upon the island of Britain, persuaded that death would find him before long. At home, they would expect his return; he'd be their chieftain, and have to take a wife, raise a family. They wouldn't understand how he had changed, how different the warrior was compared to the boy who had left. Tristan didn't shy from his bloodlust; it kept him alive, and made him this incredible fighter that saved lives every day. Expect for Percival … and Kay, and so many others. Their death a remembrance to the limits of his skills, of his power. But even if he accepted it, he knew the others wouldn't. No one could, really, outside of Dagonet who never judged him. Dagonet, whose massive hand now landed on his shoulder to provide unwavering support.

— "Tristan… Once this is over, you can be anything you want."

— "No, not… A husband, a father, a lover. None of it."

And his voice was so defeated that his brother's silent chuckle threatened to bring forth his wrath. How dare he laugh at him?!

— "Bors manages. If he can, so can you."

— "Yeah, yeah"

The dismissal was brutal and swift, irony laced into a voice who could either coax a wild animal into his hands or send acidic barbs. Pissed, Dagonet slapped his shoulder with enough force to send a pang of pain through his thigh. Then the tall knight smirked, and picked the apple that lay on the scout's chest.

— "In that case, you will not be needing this."

The message was clear; the apple representing much more than a fruit. Faster than a snake, Tristan retrieved it from his brother's hands.

— "S'Mine," he growled.

Dagonet left the healing room with a laugh, hoping that his subtle hint would shake some sense into the depressed scout.

Ten days later, Tristan found, lying upon his bed, a brand-new shirt whose collar had been patiently embroidered. Eyes widening, he recognised the intricate braids from his tribe, the Iazyges patterns somehow mingling into bird feathers to reinforce the collar that he ripped more often than not. A very personal touch to a very personal need; shirts that didn't tear off when he removed them forcefully. She would know, of course, because she mended them more often than not. The craftsmanship was remarkable, speaking of long hours of work in the candlelight. For he doubted that the seamstress would let her apprentice work on such a personal project during working hours.

The attempt caused him to slump on the bed, the piece of cloth hanging limply in his hands while he considered his next move. His little lady was trying to mend their broken bond like she mended his torn shirts. And the result, well… The result was so beautiful that it nearly called tears to his eyes. It meant so much to him, the reminder that he was still, despite this stupid service, a Iazyges chieftain, but also something more. A tamer of wild beasts, a scout, a warrior. A man she trusted and cared for until he lashed at her in the despair of his loss over a comrade … or in fear of her expectations.

How could someone pass on such an intense message with needlework?

She was an intelligent, refined and cultured woman with the strength to make a new life for herself despite being torn out of her home in difficult circumstances. Sewing and embroidery were the symbols of integrating her old skills into her current life. Maybe they were not so different after all.

Perhaps … he should make an effort.

After a trip to the bath house, Tristan adorned his new shirt, tightened his braids to keep loose strands from his face and limped down to the seamstress' house. Frances received him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, wariness clearly writ upon her fair features. And for once, Tristan paused, realising how beautiful his lady was.


	17. Chapter 16 - Seamstress part IV

**_HEre is the latest installement of Seamtress. Perhaps not the last, though, I had another chapter in mind. I admit that it takes my mind out of my 'editing' issues on my french novel. Honestly, my publisher wants to many changes that I wonder if my story will still be the same in the end. I'm seriously considering to drop the contract. _**

**_Anyway. Enjoy and review ! Cheers !_**

A year passed. Frances and Tristan resumed their masquerade courtship, meeting in public for the sake of it, taking some time, when the weather allowed it, to tread the paths around the fort. A perfect way to keep tongues wagging. Or so they thought.

By then, Frances feared so much for Tristan's safety that she sometimes awaited their return beside Vanora, behind the inner courtyard's iron fence. Bors' lover belly had grown and emptied once more, another baby added to their brood. The eleventh. A tentative friendship had been struck between the two women. Other wenches sometimes joined them, but neither stayed much. Especially Lancelot's little ladies who changed from mission to mission.

But Vanora was always there, surrounded by her noisy brood, and Frances sometimes wondered if she would ever have a family. For the moment, though, it was all a matter of staying alive. Tristan kept the pretence for her sake; it worked better than expected. Nary a man looked her way, not even Roman officers. She was Tristan's woman. Period. Married or not, she was off limits, not to be touched. And despite the protection it brought her, the reasons behind it broke her heart.

Yes, Tristan was a feared warrior who presented a stern and practical exterior to the world. His soul was burdened, even more since Percival's death. But he wasn't unfeeling. How could people believe those horrid tales about him? Why didn't he prove them wrong, showed them he had a sense of humour that he could be kind and gentle?

The first day Frances and Vanora had spoken, the fiery redhead has asked her.

— 'So you're Tristan's woman, right?'

A sharp intake of breath.

— 'Yes.'

Vanora had watched her with curiosity, trying to assess how this could be possible.

— 'How is it?'

— 'It is good. He is a good man.'

The redhead had nodded knowingly.

— 'Aye, I know. But the others don't.'

From that day, the two women awaited for 'their' men whenever they got back from missions. Fortunately, Tristan always passed the gates unscathed. Well, mainly unscathed. She was never called back to his bedside in the healing house, and they kept meeting once in a while at the tavern where his brothers teased them to death. Except for Dagonet, who always bore holes into Frances whenever she sat on Tristan's lap. The silent giant for his perceptiveness. Did he know that their courtship was a ploy? Realise how compromised she had become when it came to Tristan's well-being? The feelings that seeped through her every time she sat in his lap?

Since no men courted her, Tristan had asked, one day, if she wanted to be released to pursue a man at the fort. Frances had levelled him with a glare so intense that the scout nearly squirmed.

— 'I want no other man,' was her response.

Tristan had mulled over it for three months. What could she possibly mean? The scout, sensing danger, had refrained from asking more details. There were paths that should be avoided at all costs. Women's feelings were one of those.

But today … today was the day of his freedom, and many other thoughts were roaming the scout's mind as they escorted Bishop Germanius of Rome into the fort. Such as whether or not he would accompany Gawain and Galahad back to Sarmatia. They had teased him – again! – about bringing his woman. What would become of the little seamstress now that he was free?

The Bishop dismounted in the courtyard, calling for a meeting at the round table as soon as they were refreshed and cleaned. Tristan's eyes roamed to the iron fence, catching Frances' gaze instantly. Despite the cap covering her reddish hair, she couldn't be mistaken. Her eyes were shining, her features relieved when she realised that the blood covering him wasn't his. Faithful, just like Vanora. Tristan frowned, at loss once more. How dedicated could a woman be to a scheme?

That's it, she had had enough! Tonight, the knights would be free. Tonight was the first day of the rest of her life. Undeterred by Tristan's aloofness, Frances descended the stairs of the seamstress' house with decided steps. Preened, dressed in her most beautiful gown and hair set free, the apprentice's heart was beating hard in her chest. The decision was taken now, and she hoped the feeling of elation that came with her decision would last until the tavern. She hoped, so dearly, that her resolve wouldn't crumble like a soufflé.

The seamtress' compliments – bless her gentle soul! – fed her courage, and very soon, Frances was stomping up the paved road to the tavern. Her determined gaze alone would have deterred anyone from annoying her, but again, she was Tristan's woman. So despite the change in demeanour and the fact that, for once, she wasn't hiding in her clothes, people only graced her with admirative looks rather than lustful ones.

Laughs and noise reached her ears as she approached the tavern, and Frances's chest tightened uncomfortably. She usually didn't barge in like this; Tristan always escorted her at his convenience. Until today, she had never dared supplant his demands. Adrenalin coursed through her veins, making her heart beat so much faster. Her breath came in pants, from the exertion of walking up to the tavern of her own anxiety; she didn't know.

Her entrance failed to pass unnoticed. Good. Today, she was aiming for the kill. Her green gown swished around her legs as she strode into the tavern, her goal clearly marked. The knight's table. Her eyes found Tristan instantly.

Standing tall, an apple in his left hand, his embroidered shirt hiding behind the chafed leather vest. His hair was wild, as usual, but clean, his tattoos hidden behind loose strands that braids failed to restrain. His gaze focused on a stool where Gawain and Galahad seemed to be launching daggers. Then he moved, so graceful, and with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, a dagger flew to embed itself in Galahad dagger. Frances fought a smile; he was so good at riling them up. Gawain's disappointed sigh nearly sent her into peals of laughter. How often they fell in his trap! But she knew that behind this, Tristan was only teasing them. Did they not realise the twinkle in his carefully hidden eyes? The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth?

So when he pointed to the pincushion stool and told them, with his most even voice, that he barely 'aimed for the middle', his mouth still munching on the apple, Frances could only smile at the disgruntled grunts that welcomed his quip, biting her lower lip. Tristan chose this exact moment to turn his gaze to hers, as if he had known all along that she was there. His features, impassive, watched her like a hawk, but his eyes seemed to brighten. He liked what he saw. Then his spine stiffened slightly; he obviously wondered why she had gone to such length when it came to her attire. Or why she was there in the first place. Or whether she was going to shout at him for not inviting her to this very special evening.

Before she could deflate entirely, Frances let her affection for that man – her man! – course in her veins. Her chest expanded, and she feared she would lack air if she didn't move this very moment. Her gaze locked into his as she walked, her chin held high. Tristan stood, immobile, facing her. Open. As she caught up with him, Frances grabbed his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. Her lips engulfed his instantly, and she refused to shy away this time. Her tongue called for his and Tristan, stunned at first, obliged willingly. He tasted of ale and apple, sweet and bitter, his own masculine scent surrounding her as her little nose brushed against this skin. His strong arms winded around her frame, pulling at her waist to crush her body against his while she circled his back. He was so strong, so solid in her arms, so lively.

Frances had never known such ecstasy, her senses overwhelmed by his presence; her knees buckled. Tristan pulled so tight that her feet nearly didn't touch the ground, his hand settling on her pulsating flank as it circled her small waist. As their lips danced, tongues tasting, licking, suckling without shame, whistles started to echo into the tavern. Tristan threw his apple to his brother's table without even breaking the kiss, dragging Frances in a corner as he tasted her rosy lips. And when at last he released her, breathless, the young woman wound her fingers into his hair and laid her forehead against his chest. Her whole body tingled; her heart absolutely thunderous. Her breath came in short pants, and for a moment, she felt faint such was the swell of her chest.

When she eventually lifted her head, Frances was surprised to find a genuine smile upon his swollen lips. But it wasn't over; she needed to gather her wits and courage before the day ended.

— 'Will you wed me now?', she whispered.

His brown gaze held her steadily in their thrall.

— 'Do you wish me to?', came his sensual voice.

Like a caress to her soul.

— 'Aye. There is no other man for me. I love you, Tristan'

Her words affected him so much that he straightened, escaping her grasp for a moment. But his eyes, smouldering ambers about to burst into flames, didn't leave hers. His assessment seemed to last forever, and Frances cringed. She had just asked a man to marry her, forgoing any convention, trampling a male's pride, and furthermore, begging for an attachment he might not wish in the first place. Still, his answer was steady.

— 'Then I will wed you.'

Frances almost fainted with joy, falling into Tristan's arms like a doll.

— 'I was so afraid you would refuse me. So afraid…'

The scout, stunned, said nothing. He just held the young woman, surprised to find himself engaged without a second thought, and even more surprised that it brought him joy. She was so soft, so warm in his arms, her whole body vibrating against his. Trembling, even.

— 'Do not worry, eh?', he said as he buried his nose in her soft curls. 'You have been my woman for a year, now. No need to change that,'

Frances smiled, a full, beaming expression he had never seen on her face. And to think she addressed it to him that he was the reason why she thrived so felt so foreign. And when she whispered in his ear, Tristan couldn't help but smile back.

— 'Ever since the first time you kissed me, I have been waiting for you to do it again.'

So. He wasn't the only one who had found that first kiss rather endearing.

— 'Your wish is my command, dear lady.'

And Tristan endeavoured to kiss the seamstress' apprentice senseless, relishing in the elation of being free to do what he wished, and free to have a woman who didn't shy away from him even after knowing him for a year. In the background, Bors was yelling, and Vanora singing. The longing of her voice registered in Tristan's mind while his tongue gently danced with Frances', his hands getting bold as he caressed the side of her breast.

Home.

Frances' plump and swollen lips left him, hovering just out of reach as she searched his hooded eyes.

— 'Do you want to go home?', she asked. 'Back to Sarmatia?'

Tristan licked his lips, thoughtful.

— 'If I did, would you come?'

A reddish eyebrow climbed upon pale skin, surprise written on her face.

— 'Where the husband goes, the spouse follows.'

Frances was of noble descent; her education had taught her to submit and care for her husband no matter what. Tristan frowned; this is not what he wanted to know. His callous hand cupped her cheek as he searched for the right words.

— 'But would you want it? Sarmatia is … far away.'

It wasn't just the distance, but the culture difference as well. Frances nodded, understanding what he meant. Sarmatia was akin to another world.

— 'I want to be by your side. Here, or anywhere else in the world.'

Something clicked in Tristan's mind; the surprise of being sought out, and accepted. It wasn't protection she was after if she was ready to travel thousands of leagues to his homeland. His whole world had just shifted upon its axis again, and he had trouble reconciling his earlier thoughts – survive until his service was over – with this evening's events.

Arthur's appearance in the inner court of the tavern broke every single dream that had started forming in his mind. His posture, tense, his face, defeated, the slump of his shoulders told him immediately something was wrong. Then words flowed out of his mouth, crushing the little spark of hope that had just initiated this very evening.

Another mission, north of the wall. Death.

Stuck to his side, Frances' hand crushed his hand. Arthur's eyes glided to them, taking in the presence of his woman, preened and beautiful to honour his freedom. Her tears flowed silently down her lovely face. Tristan stood, unmoving, watching guilt, sorrow and defeat permeate his commander's eyes as he sent them to their death.

And the angry and bitter retort died in the scout's throat as he watched, helpless, Galahad crush his mug of wine at Arthur's feet before he stormed out. His commander followed, leaving for the stables with the crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. Lancelot exchanged a look with Tristan before he set off, a strange gleam shining in his dark eyes. Gawain had left, Dagonet as well, probably trying to reason with Bors. They were the last ones standing in the middle of the courtyard, dreams, happiness and hopes crushed by the authority of a bishop.

Shaking himself out of his trance, Tristan tugged at Frances' hand.

— 'Come,' he said.

And he whisked the young woman away to his quarters, his long strides matched by hers as they delved in the shadows. She didn't ask where they were going, or why, and he was grateful for it. Come to think of it, she seldomly questioned him, choosing to trust him instead, or voice her concerns afterwards. A precious treasure, for a man like him whose actions spoke better than words.

Tristan dragged her all the way to his chamber, not even considering how this could be perceived by anyone … or her. The heavy door clanged behind them and he let go of her hand to dig a purse at the bottom of his trunk, leaving her standing in his room. And when at last he turned around, fingering the pouch he had been looking for, Tristan almost gasped.

Frances stood in the moonlight, the silver rays enhancing her high cheekbones and lovely silhouette. Her face was flushed from their previous trek, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses. Her breasts rose with every short breath she took, begging for him to caress their lovely swell, a lock of reddish hair buried between them. She looked like a princess, so out of place in his bare room, her shining eyes fixed upon him rather than wandering on the simple bed and spartan surroundings. Tristan swallowed, then reached for her hand, dropping the pouch that contained every single coin he owned except for the few remaining ones in his pocket.

— 'Stay away from the Bishop, that man is evil. Do not let him see you.'

His stern voice caused her features to twist in alarm.

— 'Do you think he might recognise me?'

The scout paused, his hooded eyes nearly indiscernible below the loose strands of his hair. Except for the ray of the moon, there was no other source of light in the room.

— 'I don't know, and won't take the risk. Even if he doesn't, he would sniff a fellow Roman noble. Do not let them see your hair, hide at the seamstress. Do not step a foot outside until I get back'

By then, Frances was biting her tongue, terrified.

— 'Here. If I do not return, this is everything I own. It is yours…'

— 'Tristan!'

Her hands came to frame his cheeks and he could see her struggle as she tried not to cry.

— 'Please come back to me.'

The scout only nodded, his chest tightening under the duress of their predicament. What were the odds? Seven of them, against thousands of Saxons? And Woads along the way? What kind of miracle could save them from the blue devils?

On a whim, the scout embraced the woman who had, with much courage, asked him to wed her. His lips suddenly sought hers, capturing her mouth in a passionate kiss. Her taste was intoxicating, the warmth of her little tongue dancing with his, her fingers grasping his neck to attach him to her. It had been such a long time he had enjoyed the presence of a woman he cared about, even longer since… Tavern wenches only quelled the urges for so long, but Tristan longed for more.

His little seamstress didn't protest when his hands unlaced her dress, neither did she when his sharp canines grazed her jaw, or when his mouth descended along her slender neck to plunge deeper and deeper. She only moaned, and gasped when his lips left thousands of kisses upon the swell of her breasts. Her own fingers danced around his shoulders, for support, or his nape. When at last, she abandoned purely the idea of keeping upright, Frances bent backwards, allowing him to access her entirely while her hands pulled at his tunic. The tingle of her little fingers upon the bare skin of his belly made him pause. Her touch … so soft, so demanding, so warm.

Suddenly, the two lovers straightened, she still enclosed in the safety of his arms, her knees barely keeping her upright. She was shaking. Tristan lay his forehead against hers, panting, feeling the full extend of his discomfort in his breeches. He wanted her so badly! Out of grief and anger, need and lust mingling altogether. But he didn't want to leave and die before she was his. How despicable it was, to steal her innocence and disappear from her life altogether!

— 'Tristan,' she breathed, cheeks flushed and breath short.

He should have asked for forgiveness; his behaviour was just as bad as the rumours said. But he couldn't mention it for fear she might escape.

— 'Tristan,' she coaxed again. 'I am tainted already, will you have me still?'

The knight started, looking into her fear filled eyes without understanding. He was not one to care about purity. Storing the information in a corner of his mind, he nodded.

— 'As am I, little wife. Will you have me?'

Frances looked stunned, her heart beat so strongly that he felt its loud thumps through his tunic. Then she understood what he meant, and smiled.

— 'Yes. Yes please'

All was said and sealed in this very moment, and her dress was discarded as fast as his leather vest and tunic. The breeches followed closely; she averted her eyes and lay on the bed. And under the faint moonlight that shone through his window, Tristan found her flawless skin absolutely beautiful. Her delicate hands traced the scars of his back as she clung to him, her plush, creamy thighs welcomed him as he settled in their embrace. And he found solace in her depth as he made love to her, relishing in the caresses of a woman for the first time in years until he abandoned all sense.

When at last, they lay on his bed, intertwined under the scratchy blanket, Tristan traced the curves of her shoulder reverently, bestowing gentle kisses on her creamy-white skin. The same soft skin he had covered with her tattered dress a year ago after rescuing her from those bandits. His fingers tightened around her biceps, remembering her earlier words. 'Tainted.' He had felt it as he entered her body; the confirmation that she was no virgin. A relief, for him; he wasn't so confident when it came to deflowering a woman. A shame, for her.

— 'I thought I had killed them before they…'

His voice died in his throat before pronouncing the unthinkable. HIS little lady raped! The thought itself made his blood boil.

— 'You did, it wasn't them. Marcus, the man I was supposed to marry, wanted to make sure I wouldn't oppose the wedding. Tainting me was the easiest and most effective way to ensure I wouldn't run to another'

Tristan growled, the sound reverberating low in his belly, like a wolf about to pounce. The realisation hit him square in the chest; this was the reason she fled in the first place! Rape! It made so much sense now! Tightening his hold on her waist, he felt her tremble in his arms.

— 'He was sorely mistaken, so-called purity means nothing to me.'

His smooth voice gently caressed her senses, and she turned her head to search his gaze. Her warm eyes shone in the moonlight, from the tears she didn't want to shed. Tristan kissed her cheek with a tenderness he didn't know he possessed. Then he settled her against his chest, burying his nose in her hair with a sigh.

— 'Let him not cross my path, he will never see the sun again.'

Frances wept then, for the hardships she had endured, and the bleak future that awaited them. She wept some more when, at dawn, Tristan extricated himself from her embrace to adorn his armour. She watched him add layer after layer, the scout preparing for his last mission from which he didn't expect to return.

Yet.

Yet he returned. Worse for wear, short of a man, the giant Dagonet who had given his life to save them.

And Frances wept from joy, this time, that her knight would be returned.

And so, when two days afterwards, he loaded her onto the wagon that contained Vanora's brood and passed his armour once more to battle the Saxons, Frances watched him go with hope in her heart. Once before, he had beaten fearful odds and returned to her. Surrounded by his brothers in arms, she had faith that Tristan would prevail.

On that grim day, though, her knight didn't return.

She found him on the battlefield, badly wounded, his blood oozing into the ground. He had used his dagger to finish a burly Saxon, the man responsible for this gruesome war, the man who had nearly pierced Tristan's lung with his own blade. In fright, she knelt by his side, embracing him. Her dress, once more, soaked with blood. A cruel reminder of the first day they met.

Frances prayed to every god she knew. Irish, Celtic, Romans, Christian and Sarmatian. For hours in a row, sitting by his ashen face in the healer's quarters, she prayed and talked to him, asking, begging him not to leave her. Her prayers were answered, and Tristan once more opened his eyes to the world.

Day after day, Frances nursed her man back to health. She watched him learn to walk again, learn to shoot with the forearm that had been damaged. Ignoring the pain, pushing himself to the very limits. She watched him train until his red, angry scars faded into the web of criss-cross patterns that already marred his chest, and learnt what stubbornness meant. Her respect for the scout increased once more even if his temper grew only worse. Tristan trained until he was nearly restored to his former self, save for a limp.

And on that day, when the knight was satisfied and knew he could go no further, he asked Frances to marry him again. She obliged with a smile on her lips.

And thus, she became the lady Frances once more, wife of Sir Tristan, the scout.


	18. Chapter 17 - Seamstress Fifth Part

**_Sorry Koba, I forgot to respond to your latest review. Thanks a lot, I always love to know what goes on in your head while you read._**

**_So, ahem. I think I busted the T rating there. So we're M now. Hope you don't mind, I didn't find the heart to censure that scene._**

Frances was sore, and tired. So damn, dead tired. And worried.

She had two shirts and a gown to finish still, and no one to help. The seamstress had left her, a few months ago, succumbing to a bad cough. Her absence left a sore spot in her heart; she had been a better mother than her own. She now owned the little seamstress' house and tried to keep up the good work. It was more difficult than she expected. Especially since she couldn't help but falling asleep before the sun set at night.

But it wasn't what upset her the most.

Tristan had not returned yesterday, neither the day before. Sick with worry, Frances had eventually conceded and asked for news at the Fort. The newly appointed King Arthur had received her, without ceremony, at the round table only to tell her he had no news of the scouting party. His face, honest, had not been too reassuring. That man cared for his men, and the lines between his eyes told her everything she needed to know: King Arthur was worried for Tristan.

Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad – it felt weird to call them such – had left the rescue the very same morning.

So now Frances paced. Mending shirts, sewing a hem, and keeping the stew hot. She had even managed to make an apple pie, hoping that she smell would carry over hills and valleys and bring her man back to her. Hoping, once more, than her husband would come back unscathed. Or at least, mendable. After Badon Hill, she knew she would never consider a wound the same way again. Tristan had been hacked on the battlefield, the scars still bothered him. So did his right arm, pierced by a Saxon dagger on that fateful day. And his thigh, the one that created the limp in his gait. Still … he had survived, and recovered admirably. Out of sheer stubbornness, of course, for Frances had never seen a man push himself so strongly.

But she knew, now, that short from a blade in the heart or an arrow to the skull, her man could overcome the rest. As long as he made it home…

The sun had not yet touched the horizon when the door banged open. Frances started, prickling her fingers with a needle as she did so. Had she fallen asleep on her chair?

— 'Ow!'

Then her eyes settled on the door, and the dark silhouette, covered in blood, that had just stormed in the house.

— 'My goodness, Tristan!'

She was on her feet this very instant, taking in the dire state of her husband. Grime, dirt and blood covered him, and he seemed to sway slightly. Blood rushed through Frances' body, and for a moment, faintness overcame her senses. Putting her hand to her brow, she closed her eyes to prevent from being sick all over the floor. When she opened them anew, she caught Tristan's gaze below the mess of his hair. His eyes were hooded, defeated. Approaching slowly, the young woman offered her hand.

— 'How badly hurt?'

Frances had got used to short sentences with her silent knight, and he appreciated the effort.

— 'Not much. I didn't die. My scout did.'

His voice was but a rasp, and Frances stilled. Tristan had been in charge of the new force of scouts through the kingdom, and losing a young one to his death was a harsh blow. Darkness seemed to swirl around him, the light of the fire dancing upon the caked blood that probably wasn't his. Frances couldn't tell him how relieved she was to see him relatively unharmed when she could feel how he beat himself up. Yet, her heart sang.

She gathered her courage instead, and rolled her thumb across his knuckles with a soothing motion.

— 'Sit, husband. I will take care of you.'

And as she had done countless times before, Frances replaced the stew with a cauldron of water over the fire, and started her routine.

Like a bee in a hive, his little lady gathered medical supplies while he removed the sword from his back and shed his leather vest. Those, he would take care of himself. His apprentice's sword already was in Arthur's possession. One last homage to a man far too young to die. A man who had taken an arrow to protect him from an ambush. A man without the opportunity to take a wife, or built a life. All because he had been too slow to detect the signs. How had he missed it? Tristan remained still, lost in the recesses of his mind.

Frances' hands helped him shed the tunic, soaked with another's blood. Then she plunged a piece of cloth into the cauldron of warm water and washed his wounds, gently prodding cuts and bruises. Today, there was but one slice to stitch close, behind his calf. She deftly took care of it, applying a poultice and bandaging tight to prevent infection from setting in. By now, she was so used to mending him that she didn't even flinch when he came back scrapped and bruised. One more scar to add to his ugly skin, or so he thought. He would never understand the light of delight in his wife's eyes whenever he undressed.

Frances needed not worry anymore for infection; Tristan was too vicious to allow it to settle in his bones. It had been the key to his survival those many years, no softness to spare. A hardened core, with an even thicker hull to prevent the world from hurting him. Strength and skills. Tristan watched her lovely face as she worked, her hands soothing his hurts. She looked tired; she moved with less agility than she used to. The scout frowned.

— 'Frances'

The young woman wrung the cloth, facing him with an interrogative hum.

— 'You seem tired, are you ill?'

The little seamstress gave him a lopsided smile, one so secretive that he wondered what he was missing before she addressed his worries.

— 'I am fine, do not fret.'

And had Tristan not been so depressed, he might have laughed to hear his usual words in her mouth. For the moment though, his head fell backwards against the wall as he sighed. Frances took his cue and started washing his body from blood and grime. The warm rag softly soothed his tense muscles, her breath sometimes brushing his face as she bent over him, her plump breast touching his skin whenever she reached for his flanks. Tristan closed his eyes, relishing in the solace this simple ritual brought him.

Frances was so soft, even when she gave in to his passion. During all his years as a knight, Tristan always thought he would only settle with his match in skill. A fellow woman warrior, a Sarmatian who could shoot a bow and kill as efficiently as he did. He had never thought he would settle for a delicate woman. The idea, in itself, had made him scoff for years whenever Lancelot chased after tavern wenches. Albeit Frances' temper seldom flared, choosing to smooth things rather than aggravate, she still could hold her own against him with her gaze alone. He, only, knew how scary she could be when angered. But beside the fiery flames that resided deep within her soul, Frances couldn't hurt a fly if she wanted to.

And now, Tristan knew he'd been wrong all along to look for a warrior to fill the position by his side. Frances understood his moods, despite not being a fellow fighter. Whenever he talked – not often – she would listen intently and connect the dots of his murky mind. Whenever he didn't, she still paid such attention to him that she deciphered his thoughts with more ease than should have been comfortable. Her touch, her words, her attentions were gentle and soothing. The reassurance he never had, the safe haven to go back to. Something akin to home, like the gentle crackling of a fire in a family yurt.

As curious as it seemed, Frances was holding him together.

— 'Do you love me?', he suddenly asked.

His chest constricted painfully, like a man about to lose his head in battle. Frances blinked, taken aback, and knelt in front of him to fully gaze into his eyes. The response was written there, in the depth of her bright chocolate eyes flecked with golden.

— 'Aye. I do love you, with all my heart.'

— 'Why?'

Barely a whisper, but she heard it nonetheless. His second question was as puzzling as the next, and he saw how she furrowed her brow. Seeing her confusion, Tristan discarded the wet cloth and grabbed her hands into his. Her lovely, delicate hands, compared to his callous ones. Hands of a seamstress, hands of a killer.

— 'How? Why didn't you run away when you hear the rumours?'

Understanding dawned on her features and she cupped his cheek, diving into his gaze with such intensity that he felt his heart thunder.

— 'I love you because you are a good man, and a good husband to me.'

Tristan snorted.

— 'Because I fetch the water for you?'

Frances frowned at his derisive tone. When she had settled into the seamstess' house, Tristan had made sure to help her in the daily chores needed to maintain a household. Like every Sarmatian boy, it was embedded in his skull; two people worked better than one. So he fetched the water at the well, and did the heavy lifting so that his little seamstress wouldn't have to. She already worked all day long, after all. No need to add to the burden when he could easily help her.

Her startled look whenever he went to the market to buy food never ceased to amaze him. Until she explained, in less than flattering terms, that the Roman noble she was supposed to marry would have considered those tasks degrading. Tristan had shrugged. At the yurt, his father helped his mother, the children played their part as well. A collective effort, to make things work. Status didn't matter.

— 'You take good care of me, protect me, and give me your affection. I wouldn't have dreamt of a man like you, Tristan.'

Silence. Neither Frances nor Tristan moved, time suspended as they watched in each other's souls. Until Frances whispered.

— 'And you will be a good father.'

Tristan blanched, squeezing her hands.

— 'Are you …?'

Frances blushed and bit her lip, nodding vehemently. Stunned, Tristan could only thank the Gods he was already sitting for he knew he would have toppled over. A father! Breath short, he could only drag the little seamstress – his wife – up into his arms and squeeze the life out of her. Fear, joy, pain, longing shot through him in such rapid succession that he couldn't make heads or tails of his feelings. He'd never thought … he would make it this far. Could he really be a father? The man watching over an innocent bundle without breaking it to pieces?

Frances surrounded his shoulders with her arms, her smooth skin so soft against his scars, and lay her cheek upon the crown of his head. Tristan gradually relaxed in her arms, realising that even though he found himself absolutely unsuitable, he was a husband to her nonetheless. Their embrace lasted forever, he, basking in her presence and she, holding on to him like a lost child. There was fear, here too. Did she doubt her ability to be a good mother? He, for one, didn't. Tristan squeezed her waist once, causing her to tighten her hold.

— 'I was so afraid I'd lost you, and you would never know your baby.'

Our baby. Such a strange notion! Speechless, Tristan only nodded. Then he took advantage of his position, and gently lay his forehead upon her breasts while his hand caressed her lower belly. There, his child grew without a clue about the world, protected in his mother's womb. His child, born from his seed and Frances' loins. Tristan felt a little lightheaded, and realised why Frances seemed so tired. Her body was adjusting to the child. Hence her lopsided smile, and deflection of his previous question.

Standing tall, Tristan watched his wife's face as she beamed at him. She was happy. The scout captured her lips in a kiss that conveyed, he hoped, the miracle that she was in his life. The miracle of allowing him to plant his child inside of her, the miracle of her body nurturing him. How far they had come, from the exhausted knight that had considered leaving her on the road after her attack by bandits. HIS wife, HIS little woman was now safe. And a lady, albeit she insisted to continue working as a seamstress.

At last, Frances gasped for air, and Tristan relented, leaving her now swollen lips.

— 'The stew is ready, will you dress and eat?'

The scout's lips quirked up. He had never thought she'd be the kind of woman to stuff him happy, but the truth was that she had learnt how to cook pretty quickly, and with gusto. If his smell didn't deceive him, there was an apple pie freshly baked. Sneaky woman; she knew he would return from the dead for an apple pie.

Frances was half-asleep, curled against him in their bed, the glow of the flames dancing upon her creamy skin. Her reddish strands lay like a waterfall of fire over her shoulders, covering her upper back ever since he had undone her braid. Tristan couldn't have enough of her hair; he loved passing his fingers through her silky curls. For once, his own mane was rather tamed; she had fallen asleep before her deft fingers had tangled in his freshly washed hair. Exhaustion.

But now he knew that it was only the pregnancy sucking out her energy, Tristan's worry had lessened. Not entirely, of course. A brand-new cart of 'what if' had just been delivered to his doorstep. Well, technically, to the seamstress' doorstep. What if the pregnancy went wrong? What if she got sick? What if childbirth robed him from his wife? What if the baby died before birth? What if he didn't survive more than a few days? What if…

Sighing, the scout pushed those sombre thoughts at the back of his mind. For the moment, he was home, alive, and rested beside the most beautiful woman of the fort. And she loved him, just as much as he cared for her. His hand hoovered longingly above her white skin until he could not contain himself, allowing his fingers to caress her shoulder. Frances stirred with a hum, her hand rising to lay upon his heart, burying in his dark curls now marred with white. He was thirty-two now, on his way to being an old man covered in scarred tissue. How could she even look at him, and find him handsome? A wonder. Did he deserve her, this little woman of his? Probably not, yet he would not live without her now. If this baby took her to the grave, he would follow for sure. Tristan had had enough of his solitary life.

The urge to make her his rose from the depth of his entrails, demanding, almost overwhelming. The animal in him could feel how her scent had shifted; it was just a subtle difference, but once there, it couldn't be ignored. Already, the baby was affecting her.

Tristan pushed her into the mattress, hovering over her, the full length of his stark-naked body in contact with her plush curves. Stiff like a board, raised on his upper arms, the scout awaited for his prey to acknowledge him.

Frances opened her eyes, slightly groggy, only to find his lips barely an inch from her face. Teasing, just out or reach, domineering in the marital bed. His warmth seeped through her, her whole skin blazing from his proximity. His loose strands fell around them, his dark brown mingling with her reddish curls. His soft breath caressed her face … he was close, so close, but not enough so she could kiss him. Still lingering in a half sleep, Frances whimpered and pushed her body flush against him, arching her back to make contact.

Tristan growled, aroused by the unexpected reaction. His right hand descended on her skin, landing upon the soft flesh of her waist, his whole weight supported by the strength of his other forearm alone. The young woman responded to his touch with another wave of her body, her eyes held captive by his intense gaze. Tristan's lips quirked slightly; she was so responsive today, a delight to touch, a pleasure to tease. The simple contact of his hand upon her flank seemed to set her ablaze, and when his thumb started stroking the soft skin of her waist, she lifted her thighs on either side of him, encasing him without any hope of release.

Her breath was short, her breasts grazing his chest as she bit her lip.

— 'Please…', she whispered.

Tristan's eyebrow quirked, teasing, before he slowly lowered his body to hers, mindful of his greater weight. Frances sighed in contentment, reaching for his lips with a moan of pure bliss. The knight welcomed the kiss heartily, sliding his tongue in the depths of her hot, wet mouth, amazed at the strength of her own arousal. Her body searched for the contact, writhing below his, calling for his bare skin. Tristan's hand dug into her loose curls, taking a moment to watch her blazing cheeks as she regarded him, her deep chocolate eyes loaded with desire. How beautiful she was, his woman, when she wanted him!

His own body throbbed for her, and Tristan obliged without delay. A slight tilt of his hips was all it took before her wet flesh welcomed him, a deep, sensual sigh escaping her lips as she called him in. Tristan gasped; he never got used to the pure jolt of pleasure that greeted his body whenever he entered her. Being inside of her felt like home. The knight surrounded his woman from all sides, his arms locked around her as her head fell backwards, moans of pleasure escaping as he worked them to their own little place of ecstasy. Her thighs tightened around him, her ankles crossing to keep him close, her body asking for more, and more of him until he couldn't contain himself anymore. She cried out when he lost control of his thrusts, her long intense shudders testimony of the intense peak she was going through. Her inner walls clenched around him so tightly; his own orgasm, already uncontrollable, only prolonged by her writhing.

It took a long time for them to descend from cloud nine. Frances kept him trapped in the safe heaven of her legs, skin against skin, caressing his back and shoulders until her hand stilled. Tristan didn't even need to look at her face to know she had fallen asleep; her breathing had changed. Damn, she was exhausted, his little woman! With one last sniff to her skin – what a peculiar smell – Tristan untangled their limbs and settled by her side with a happy smile. Pregnancy certainly made things interesting, and he remembered Bors' saying how horny Vanora could get in those special times. At the time, he had dismissed his comments; after all, those two were little more than rabbits in his mind. But now he understood. Who knew how long this shift balance would last, but he intended to take advantage of it.

Yes, life certainly was sweeter with the little seamstress by his side. And to think that she had been the one to gather the nerve to ask him to wed her… Not that anyone would know, mind you. But it said a lot about the strength of her character. A very suitable wife to the scout indeed.


	19. Chapter 18 - Seamstress - Sixth Part

1\. Seamstress – Sixth part

**_Phew! This is the sixth part of this story and I think I'll wrap this up afterwards. So, final part, a bit longer than usual. I couldn't leave a crime unpunished hehe … and I was in Carcassonne this week end and I just itched to write about Camelot's great hall. If you've never been there (Carcassonne), check the pictures online. It is worth a visit._**

Frances tugged at her sleeve to keep her fingers busy. There! She'd found the loose thread in her hem. Damn it ! Who knew how much of the embroidery work would be wasted come the evening! And despite the fact that she was, now, a lady of leisure – ahem, a lady of the court – Frances didn't fancy having to repair this particular piece. While her mind ran across the multiple ways to fix the elaborate garland stitch, the official gathering ran its course in Camelot's Great Hall. Men from all across the kingdom had come to honour King Arthur's invitation, a call to renew vows and agreements, military and commercial alike.

Frances' eyes never left the bard, yet her mind was far, far away. She much preferred music to those singing minstrels. But it was a good way to hear about the happenings in nearby kingdoms, albeit songs always romanced things more than necessary. Still, King Arthur insisted on inviting artists from all over the kingdom to grace the Great Hall; an honour none of them would pass. A smart move; it kept the news flowing. This evening, the bard lacked talent; his voice rose and fell while he played the luth, but Frances couldn't keep her thoughts focused on the man.

Her quiet sigh earned her a concerned look. Sir Tristan, as handsome as ever, did not move an inch from his seat. Yet, his eyes met hers with a question. She addressed him a tired smile punctuated by a slight roll of her eyes. His sensual mouth quirked up; no words were needed for him to understand that she was bored out of her mind. His long fingers drifted under the massive table, sliding across her thigh in a caress that spoke of desire and longing. Heat immediately pooled in her lower abdomen, and the young woman straightened in her seat to keep her composure. Trust her husband to ignite the fire within her in the middle of the Great Hall! Who knew the scout – officially a trusted advisor to the King – could be this playful. He that seemed so aloof, so quiet, so deadly in public was relentless when it came to her. "I will never have enough of you," he had said, one day in a fit of passionate lovemaking.

Five children later, she believed him. The youngest of their boys was but eighteen months old, and she was glad for the breastfeeding that kept her from being pregnant again; she wasn't a maiden anymore. But Tristan still complimented her beauty, and from the gleam that passed though his eyes right before his attention returned to the bard, she knew he didn't lie. The admiration was returned heartily; more than thirteen years had passed since they were married, and Tristan never been more handsome. Age had brought a little bulk to his shoulders, some solace as well. So did their children. Their daughter, first, had broken his façade with such ease. The boys, next, brought forth his playfulness. And his eyes alighted with joy every time he welcomed a new addition, his hands – those of a killer – opening wide to receive the newborns into the safe haven of his arms.

Sir Tristan, today, was still a dangerous man. Trained, and deadly. As accurate with a bow than with a dagger. His quick wit only matched by his acute sense of observation. The perfect counsellor for a King that needed blunt opinions devoid of any ambition. There was no man more devoted to his King, except for his brothers; the knights of Sarmatia. But behind the role rested a soul who'd found a sense of belonging. The crow's feet around his eyes were more pronounced; laugh lines acquired with his family. The leather vest and worn out breeches had been replaced by simple, yet more elegant garments sewn by his wife. His eyes, once hidden behind wild bangs, were now exposed. Less guarded as well. The shaggy mane had been tamed and sometimes rested at his nape, tied with a leather cord.

All in all, life wasn't bad in Camelot. Ironically, the noble woman that had fled her household to escape marriage was a lady again by means of her husband. The Sarmatian knight had restored her to her rank, and even more. Tristan never cared telling his brothers that he was considered royalty; his tattoos still stood out, but no one dared asking him about it. Arthur knew, though, and had made him a collector of Sarmatian who fled the Huns. His poise alike would have assured his welcome among his people, but the tattoos spoke of his status well enough. Already, Tristan had gathered more than ten knights to populate the round table, and settled many a Sarmatian family around Camelot.

The Roman empire was falling to pieces. Both hurt by Rome, Tristan and Frances watched it crumble with satisfaction, a sly smile gracing their lips. And even if Arthur still reached for Mediterranean ambassadors, the scout and his wife stayed clear from romans. They deserved this new life devoid of shackles for which they had slaved, fought and worked to the bone.

So when the bard eventually finished his tale and the music started, Sir Tristan, fearsome knight of the round table, asked his lovely wife for a dance. She obliged with a genuine smile. As they left their seats, Tristan didn't care for the looks and gossips of the court, no more now than ever in his life before. He knew people judged him stern, and worrisome. Dangerous, barely a Sarmatian animal, with no sense of politics and diplomacy. He knew the ladies spoke behind Frances' back sometimes, wondering if he was a beast altogether, or even spoke to her, pitying her. Sometimes envying her. Tristan's mind couldn't reconcile with the looks they gave him. Women. There wasn't much to understand there, and he was glad that his wife had, at least, some sense. His match in everything but his skill with blades.

Tristan couldn't care less what the court thought of him when his life had come to this point. His children were cared for and happy, his King trusted him, so did his brothers, and he excelled at his job; to keep the kingdom safe. And so, his maroon eyes twinkled when he offered his hand to the lady Frances. HIS lady. And as they started dancing to a merry tune, he watched her twirl and turn, her smile wide whenever she caught his eyes, her happiness radiating. He was the centre of her world … a weird fact that he was slowly coming to terms with.

How beautiful she was still. Especially after bearing his children; Tristan still had trouble believing it. Frances had given him the most sacred of presents, and her figure had grown plump, especially since she was still breastfeeding the youngest ones. How he loved those new curves! Lovely and plush, a delight to kiss and caress. Her hair danced around her, a few strands already escaping the hold of her braids, the rest flowing freely. Frances had always refused the elaborates updos of the court; it reminded her of her roman origins, of her slavery in her father's house. He wasn't one to protest; she was stunning with her hair cascading down her back, strands falling over her swollen breasts.

When his hands found hers again, Tristan tightened his fingers and pulled her into his chest; a tiny squeal escaped her as she stumbled into his arms. Claiming her mouth for a short kiss, the knight prevented her from fleeing by snaking his arms around her waist. Frances rolled her eyes, then attacked his lips fiercely. They missed a turn in the dance, but the scout wasn't ready to surrender yet. Everywhere he touched her, his skin tingled with joy. Relentless, she had called him. Tristan snorted –internally. No, he was just a man in love, and filled with energy that he couldn't dissipate in fights. Of course she would take the brunt of it… But who would remain still when she disrobed, eh? 'twas her fault, after all.

Feeling another part of his body steer, Tristan smiled at his wife, a discrete quirk of his lips only addressed to her before it disappeared in his beard streaked with white. Frances eventually escaped his hold and he let her go, resuming the steps as if they had never stopped dancing. Her chocolate eyes twinkled with mirth, her lips still shiny from his tongue's swipe over them, cheeks reddened by his boldness. The scout wasn't getting any younger, but he didn't mind ageing; it meant he was still alive. Life was being more generous now, and he could only thank his Gods for the present of his wife and children.

The rhythm changed, and Tristan had to let Frances go with the flow as dancers streamed around the place, going from partner to partner. If the musicians were skilled enough, each couple would find its first companion at the end, after completing the full circle. If they weren't … he would find her nonetheless. Tristan lifted an arm; a lady passed under it, and he completed his turn. The music picked up, the flute's speed increasing, he going counterclockwise while women went the other way around. The knight kept the pace, steps following as he gracefully performed his part of the dance. Some ladies sent him flirtatious smiles, others scowled as they had to lock hands with him.

Tristan ignored them all, keeping an eye on his fiery lady as she twirled graciously around the great hall, her little feet carrying her like a fairy.

The knight completed another turn, lifting his arm anew to give way to his new partner when a sense of dread invaded his senses. At once, his hand flew to his dagger, his eyes searching his wife. It didn't take long for him to find Frances. She stood, motionless, her features frozen and pure horror in her eyes. Tristan's legs started moving before he understood the situation.

Smack!

The shock of a woman colliding against his chest barely annoyed him and he brushed her woman aside without even granting her a glance. His long strides brought him to Frances in an instant; she was facing a Roman. Beardless, short black hair and an air of regality; a blasted noble! The man stood, a smug smile upon his fine features, his dark eyes gleaming with malevolence. Beside them, the music still ran albeit the dancers were disorganised; the pattern was broken now.

Tristan stood to his full height, towering over the Roman who didn't lose his smug smile. The knight's hand snaked around Frances' waist, squeezing her side to convey his support. She was shaking; fury descended upon him like an angel of death, hot fire coursing through his veins. Whatever the man had done was dire enough! There would be hell to pay, be it Christian or Roman. Sharp canines showed as he growled.

— "What have you done to my wife?"

A scoff was his answer, and as the flute eventually died down, Tristan couldn't help but worry. Frances' silence did not bode well; the last time he'd seen her speechless was the day he had found her on the road after her assault.

— "Wife?", the roman sing-songed.

The false surprise didn't fool Tristan; the man already knew. And his dark eyes lingered upon Frances' pale face, a dirty smirk still in place. The scout barely refrained from punching the man in the face for his gall, choosing instead to lash out.

— "You would do well to show some respect."

The Roman slightly bowed, mockery still etched upon his features. The slight lines of his face, the beardless chin and the proud posture told him he was probably his age. And used to be in charge. The typical Roman he avoided at all cost. Had the man realised whom he addressed? Whom he dared mock? For despite his very fit physique, he still was a head shorter than himself, and Tristan was still Arthur's best swordsman.

Shaking with anger, the knight caught a glimpse of Gawain's tawny hair. Good. People had stopped dancing altogether, some circling them as they realised something was wrong. Damn all those curious minds who would spread gossip about his wife! Voyeurs and ill wishers alike; who knew what rumours would run this very same night?

— "Pardon me, sir knight. I only wished to warn you."

His tone was sweeter than honey, yet the roman's eyes were those of a snake. Tristan's tongue darted to his upper lip; the sign that his patience was short. Glaring, he detached the words slowly.

— "Cease your ramblings and leave…"

But the man would have none of it, and now, silence filled the great hall. Tristan internally cursed, wondering if he should throw Frances into Gawain's arms and release his cutlass. But then, the crowd parted to make way for the King. Tristan's eyes only granted him a look before returning to the sneaky Roman.

— "It is my duty, after all, to give you the sad news. To show my respect to a great knight of the round table"

Behind him, Arthur stood regally. He spared a glance with his knight, a frown marring his features. By his side, Guinevere stood still, her posture tense. But not as much as Tristan who seemed prepared to strike.

— "Of what do you speak of, Marcus?" Arthur asked with a soothing tone.

The Roman cocked his head, surprised to be facing the great King. A bow dripping with condescension greeted his question, and when Marcus lifted his head anew, he released his venom.

— "My King. I regret to impart such news, but the woman you call Lady Frances is nothing but pure. The reasons I know of it is that she slept with me before marrying your knight, then fled her father's home in shame."

— "Shut up!" Tristan almost shouted. "My wife's affairs are nothing to you."

Arthur felt the warning roll about in the room like a storm about to erupt, the thunder of Tristan's voice enough for everyone to step back. But the Roman had decided to play his cards to the end, anger and resentment dripping from his voice.

— "I am sorry, my friends, for those grave news."

And there laid the worst of mistakes as he set a compassionate hand upon Tristan's arm.

— "I understand your anger," he whispered, like a confidence.

Arthur cringed, his eyes widening. He knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it. Something flashed in Tristan's eyes as his long fingers snaked out, grabbing the wandering hand and twisting. The Roman let out a cry of pain when the knight forced him to his knees.

— "Touch me again and you die," he growled, towering over the offending man.

— "Peace!" Arthur exclaimed.

The King's plea echoed in the great hall, a desperate call to his knight. For a long time, nothing happened but the slight whimpering of Marcus, knights, guards and nobles frozen. But despite his seething anger, Tristan eventually let go and took a step back. Because the public needed to believe that the scout responded to the King, because they never knew the arguments that sometimes brewed behind closed doors. Because Arthur was his friend, first and foremost. The King sent his knight a grateful look while the roman nursed his wounded wrist and stood on wobbly legs.

— "You married a whore, barbarian," he spat.

The lady Frances blanched at the insult and Gawain rushed to Tristan's side; probably to prevent him from killing the Roman. Arthur took a sharp breath; it was going to get ugly and he wasn't sure he wanted to stop Tristan from gutting the roman. But instead of uncontrollable rage, a predatory smile lifted a corner of the scout's lips. An unsettling expression he had only seen before a battle.

— "Do you hear that, Gawain?" he drawled, his voice almost giddy.

The blond knight nodded, his jaw clenched.

— "Loud and Clear."

Tristan nodded thoughtfully, the gleam in his eyes nearly unbearable for those who knew him. Straightening, the knight spoke, his smooth voice contrasting with the purpose of his words.

— "Marcus," he said, punctuating the word with a slight bow.

The Roman's dark eyebrows lifted in a hopeful expression, but Arthur knew what was coming. Ten years at court had taught Tristan a little dramatics, and a shudder ran through his spine. Bless God he never had to battle his own scout.

— "For your insult to my wife, I challenge you to a duel. As for the accusation of rape, this fight shall be to the death. There can be no substitute."

There, the hammer had fallen. Marcus gasped, and whispers echoed among the assistance. Arthur, like many others, could only wonder what Tristan meant. The scout's body simmered with anticipation, his fingers dancing around his cutlass. Beside him, Frances' cheeks were aflame, her head lowered in shame.

Shame… How come …? Rape ! All blood left his face when Arthur understood. So many times he had wondered about the little seamstress who has stolen his scout's heart. Her noble manners, her skill with a needle, her affection for Tristan. Too often, he had gathered many things were left unsaid, the questions she never answered. But Tristan trusted the seamstress, and he trusted Tristan. Facing the ugly truth, Arthur's green eyes hardened, his jaw clenching as the roman exclaimed his disagreement.

— "Surely you jest, sir. The accusation of rape is unfounded."

The lady Frances lifted her head then, and Arthur could only stare at her tear-streaked cheeks. And albeit her voice wavered, she did not flinch as she addressed the man who had probably stolen her virginity.

— "I hereby accuse you, formally, of rape in the year 475 AD during our betrothal. My husband, Sir Tristan, is entitled to defend my honour."

Marcus blanched then; he probably wasn't expecting this. Turning to Arthur in hopes of appealing to the higher authority, his incredulous expression fell. As King, his composure didn't falter, but as a man, Arthur was appalled. Betrothed! The man had raped his betrothed before they could take the vows, forcing her to flee her own house. This could not be borne! His expression turned thunderous as he spoke:

— "So be it. Tomorrow, two bells after dawn, you shall fight and God shall be judge as per the laws of my kingdom. In the meantime, you will be escorted and guarded."

And while Marcus was led out with guards at his back, his yells about diplomacy and Sarmatians dogs echoed in the great hall. Arthur sighed, his eyes meeting those of the scout. Tomorrow, a rape would be punished by death, for he did not doubt Tristan's skills, nor his motivations. For the moment, though, the knight bestowed a gentle kiss to his wife's temple and led her away.

Watching the tall, proud Tristan display his affection to the shaken lady, Arthur hoped that she would find peace. And that his court wouldn't be too harsh with her. Guinevere's hand upon his arm focused his thoughts long enough for an idea to blossom; she would know what how to handle gossip.

Frances was sitting. Not by choice; her legs were shaking so violently that she couldn't keep upright. Madayne, her eldest child, sat by her side. Summoned by her father, the little blond lady held her mother's hand tightly. Rumours would spread fast and far. At twelve, she needed to know the truth to be able to handle gossip. Frances respected her husband for his insightfulness. He protected their children the way he saw fit, but didn't shield them from reality. Knowing what to look for was the best of protections.

Yet, she couldn't help but feel ashamed. Sir Tristan, standing tall and proud in front of her, only had to take a look at her face to know what dark thoughts raged under her skull.

— "It wasn't your fault, Frances. It will never be, and once this despicable man is dead, people will know that you were only a victim."

The shaking resumed, and Madayne circled her waist to squeeze it tight.

— "Don't cry, Mother. Father will avenge you"

But the tears kept flowing, upsetting the little lady by her side. Yet, Frances couldn't have stopped them if her life depended on it.

— "I'm sorry, my little girl" she hiccuped. "Sorry that you had to be the witness of my demise."

— "I'm not a little girl, Mum."

Tristan knelt, his deep eyes considering his daughter with pride and a hint of uneasiness. Probably wondering how he was going to handle suitors when the time came … and despite the shame, Frances could only smile at the thought. Who knew the fearsome scout would create such a strong bond with his eldest? How she loved him! Suddenly, the idea to lose him crushed her chest, and she threw herself in his arms. Squeezing tight, she cried.

— "I don't want harm to come to you. Don't fight for my life, husband."

A discrete sigh passed Tristan's lips before his callous hands cupped her cheeks. Then he plunged his gaze into hers, his intent so strong that she couldn't look away.

— "Frances, I have fought fifteen years for Rome. What good am I if I cannot fight to avenge you, and defend your honour."

But instead of feeling relieved, Frances paled, her hand trembling.

— "I fear my reputation is done now."

Gossip would stain her family now, her daughter just as much as her sons. And despite the fact that she knew what was told in her back, the little ones had, until now, been protected. People were too afraid of the scout to spread lies about his children. The feel of Tristan's lips upon her temple called her back to reality, and she lifted her eyes to find the King. His green eyes were sad, and angry when he addressed her.

— "I am sorry for what happened to you, Lady Frances. Know that you have my admiration."

Frances' eyebrows shot upwards, but she was too shaken to ask the meaning of his words. Then the King turned to Tristan, and a muscle ticked in his jaw as he faced his trusted scout.

— "Tristan? My prayers are with you."

Tristan's lips lifted in a feral sneer; the predator was unleashed.

— "Save them, I don't need it."

Unfazed by Tristan's rejection, the King only nodded. Stoic, like those leaders of old that had carved history.

— "Nonetheless I will pray for justice. Deal it swiftly."

Frances bit her lip; she had no doubt that Tristan would cut Marcus down before he could even lift his sword. Despite his apparent aloofness, the scout had never lost his reflexes. Bless him for being so skilled; even if Marcus was well trained in the arts of the gladius, he didn't stand a chance. This time, the haughty Roman had attacked the wrong person.

— "As for court, Lady Frances, my Queen knows just the right people to spread the word of your courage and dedication. Be assured that she will do what is necessary."

Arthur's words caused her head to jerk up, the meaning taking a little time to dawn upon her. Why would the King go to such length to preserve her? Granted, Tristan was like family, but she only was his wife; she had never done anything to warrant such grace. Blinking back tears, Frances bowed to her King. Beside her, she could feel Madayne bristling on the bench. The youth wasn't used to the intimidating presence of Arthur yet. If only she knew how, sometimes, Tristan rambled against his stubbornness, and called him all sort of names.

— "Thank you, sire.", Frances said.

And Arthur bowed his head to her. The King, bowing to her !

— "No, I thank you for the joy you have brought to my scout."

His words filled her with courage, for if there was anything she had never regretted in her life, it was her marriage to Tristan. Lifting her head, she dared sending Arthur a square look.

— "He deserved all of it."

The King's eyes drifted to Tristan, a gleam of fondness alighting them as the scout checked his cutlass.

— "Aye, he did."

It was then than Frances understood why the King took such good care of their family. Tristan was like a brother; his happiness meant a lot to him.

— "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Get some rest," he concluded.

Then he turned away and left, his swishing cape dancing around his boots.

_Two bells after dawn._

There was quite a crowd gathered around the training area today. Usually, only children and youngsters – most of the time, the knights' brood – bothered to watch the knight's training. But today, women, families and men alike awaited the confrontation between Marcus and Tristan. The scout had not a care in the world; he'd fought in many circumstances before. And this particular one would be over faster than any of them expected. This very night, as he watched Frances sleep fitfully, her eyes red and swollen, he swore that no one would ever dare glare at his woman, let alone touch her. He would make an example of Marcus.

A few feet away, Madayne and Evhan surrounded his wife. At respectively twelve and ten years old, Tristan had allowed them to attend the duel. The rest of their sons were in safe hands at the fort with some of Bors' children. There was an age for tales of knights and dragons, and an age for reality. Beside them stood Gawain, a gleam of expectation shining in his blue eyes. Galahad flanked him, still young despite his thirty plus years. Pup one day, pup forever. Surrounded by her family and friends, he could see Frances' confidence rising. Her reddish hair shone proudly in the morning light, her features as beautiful as ever, her plain dress showing the curves he so cherished. Ready to face the man who had plagued her nightmares for so long.

Once more, the lady Frances rose from the ashes, supported by his brothers in arms. And if anything happened to him … he knew he could count on them to take care of his family. Sending one loaded look to his brothers, Tristan turned around to watch the arrival of the idiot that had dared cross his path.

Frances watched, from her spot, as Marcus made his way to the training area. The Roman didn't seem so proud now. Perhaps, yesterday, he had not listened to rumours and dismissed Tristan's reputation. The terrified gleam in his eyes, now, told her that he knew. Had the guards fed him stories to frighten him? The poor roman, even if well-built and well trained, stood no chance. The length of his gladius didn't amount half the reach of Tristan's Dao. Unless he was particularly skilled, death awaited him swiftly. No one could save him now; diplomacy had failed the moment he insulted a knight's wife. Poor Marcus, always a little hotheaded, always acting before thinking through the consequences. Thirteen years had brought Tristan some bulk and perspective, but Marcus still acted like a brat. It was too late now, and despite the guilt that stirred within her, Frances didn't want to save him. Would his death heal her heart?

Somewhere, deep within, she realised that, had Marcus not raped her on that fated day, she never would have met Tristan. She would be the sad wife of a Roman in a fallen empire rather than the proud spouse of her knight. Somehow, his action, however despicable, had led her to Hadrian's wall. To Camelot. And she wouldn't trade places for the world.

Her chocolate eyes followed Tristan as he tightened the straps of his armour. The tightened jaw betrayed his fury; the scout was calling his anger forth in anticipation. He would show no mercy.

King Arthur and Queen Guinevere stood on a stage, close by, but not close enough that Marcus could call them out of favouritism. The law was the law, and Arthur incarnated it regally. There would be no appeal, no way out.

Sword sheathed on his back, Tristan strolled leisurely in the training area. His false nonchalance didn't fool Frances, for she knew her husband's coiled muscles were ready. Yet, it had the desired effect on Marcus whose skin went even paler. Who could possibly face a duel with such calm, if not the devil himself? The roman tried once more to appeal to the King, to the laws of diplomacy, and raged about the commercial accords that would surely be forfeited with his disappearance. His cowardice disgusted her, and Frances could only congratulate herself on her rash actions that, thirteen years ago, had brought her to Tristan's feet. The rest of his ramblings went unnoticed as she caught her husband's gaze. Confidence and love poured from him, his feelings plainly exposed without his face betraying any of it. It never ceased to amaze her, how a simple look could make her knees weak. But then his eyes flickered to the side, catching Madayne's gaze, and their daughter nodded. A sly smirk quirked Tristan's lips, mirrored by a feral smile on their little lady's face. How unsettling that their daughter would be so alike her father!

Judging that both duellists were ready, the King stood. But Marcus, knowing his fate sealed, didn't wait for the signal. A collective gasp of outrage greeted his actions as the roman charged, his gladius aimed at Tristan's head. Frances' heart stopped then; her husband stood, unmoving, his sword still sheathed. For a dreadful moment, she thought he would drop, wounded to death by the same man who'd stolen her innocence.

Tristan moved so fast that she had trouble understanding what happened. One moment, he was standing proudly, ready to be butchered, and the next… Cling! The ring of metal told her he'd deviated his blade somehow – perhaps with the cutlass. His whole body twisted in the opening, his shoulder colliding with Marcus' plexus. A muted sound escaped the roman before the scout head butted him fiercely. The gladius flew away; Marcus collapsed to the ground with a grunt, holding his nose. Tristan then reached for his sword, and unsheathed the Dao with a graceful arc. The blade danced in his hand until his long fingers steadied it in a reverse grip. Tristan's whole body went down, and when he stood anew, his blade was buried into Marcus's throat, pinning the roman to the ground.

A few convulsions later, Marcus was dead, his blood pooling like a crimson river.

Frances released a breath, and once she was sure that her attacker would never stand again, stole a glance at her daughter's face. Madayne stood, transfixed, her eyes wide. It was the first time she witnessed her father in battle mode. No doubt the little lady would understand why people cowered when Tristan glared. As for Evhan, his smug smile conveyed the full extend of his pride.

When Tristan retrieved his Dao, King Arthur rose. A hush fell over the crowd.

— "God had chosen, supporting Tristan as he sook justice for his wife's trials. The lady Frances is therefore declared innocent of the false accusations laid at her feet. Let it be known that no injustice shall remain unpunished in Camelot."

A knot dissolved in Frances' chest and she watched as Tristan spat on Marcus' body, then glared at the assistance. Many eyes fled to the ground, frightened by the scout's purpose, until his gaze fell upon his family.

— "Mark my words. Whomever threatens my finally will not see the light of the new day", he said, his voice carrying across the sparring field.

Frances' heart was hammering. If Tristan's threat would unleash rumours at court, he only meant to protect his daughter. And she bowed to him, her husband, for ensuring that Madayne would never have to endure rape. As for Evhan, he threw his head back and cheered his father's name. Gawain and Galahad responded in kind, and very soon, the whole crowd applauded.

Started by this unusual reaction, Tristan strode to his wife to steal a well-deserved kiss. Madayne shied away from this disgusting display of affection – Ew, there was tongue involved! – to study her father's bloody Dao. Crimson droplets fell from the sharp blade, staining the dirt. A moment later, a set of familiar eyes caught her gaze. Clear hazel bordering on grey stared back, a question unasked within their depth.

Was she spooked by his brutality? Had he lost her love, witnessing how he'd killed a man without even breaking a sweat? And while Evhan came to clasp his father's forearm like a fellow warrior, Madayne answered in kind, her eyes conveying her admiration for the man who had defended her mother's honour with such skill. Not a word was exchanged, but the small smile her father gave her was enough to brighten Madayne's world.

— "Hey Tristan, fancy a sparring session?"

Gawain's voice broke the silent communication between father and daughter, and Tristan lifted his head to the one she called the lion knight – in regards to his wild mane of tawny hair. Galahad appeared then, his sword at the ready.

— "Yeah, you don't seem too tired. Can't let you become a rusty old man."

Tristan cocked his head aside, seemingly deep in though. Then he gestured to the training area, his voice quiet as he said:

— "Yes. Disappointing man."

And while people trailed away, either replete or pissed by the quick execution, Madayne remained by her mother's side as they dragged Marcus' body away. She wouldn't miss a sparring session for the world, intent on watching the legend that was her father, the fearsome scout. More than forty years old, a slight limp due to previous battles, and still able to disarm Gawain and Galahad who trained the new knights every day. Damn, what a man her mother had landed!

**_So, you might have found Frances quite subdued here. She's dealing with the trauma of rape, like too many others have before her, and it takes a long time to heal from this. Especially when facing the rapist again. She needs all the support she can get at this point._**

**_Madainn means Aurora in gaelic, and evhan is freedom._**


	20. Chapter 20 - Seamstress Epilogue

**_So, I owed this epilogue to Tobiramamara. There it is. You asked Sarmatian plains, and peaceful. The scene just wrote itself. I hope you will enjoy. I was listening to 'so far from the Clyde' from Mark Knopfler, and 'Piper to the end', same artist was I wrote this. Check it out on youtube, he's a great composer and it fits the mood._**

This was his ultimate battle. He was looking forward to it, his arms burning from the strain, his boots lagging in the snow. Fresh flakes still twirled around him, yet the sun shone on the still landscape. Blanketed in its icy clutches, the earth was not even breathing, awaiting for spring to revive the ground. But he wouldn't see it. Not this year. He'd seen too many. More than fifty five already.

Yes. Today, he would push his body to its very limit, fight the strain and the pain while the wind hurled his unruly hair away, trying to push his braid away.

Everything for her. And while he walked, Frances nestled in his arms in the wide woolen cloak, Tristan couldn't help but remember.

Fifteen years ago, they had lost the greatest battle of history against the Saxons. More brutal than Badon hill, more deadly that any of his skirmishes with the woads, the outcome a piece of barren land and broken hearts.

Arthur died that day, Guinevere… fled back to her people, somewhere in the north. Evhan, his incredible, beautiful, fantastic son was buried with his sword. A piece of his heart went with him, and Frances' tears were shed for three days and night upon his tomb. Madayne, sweet little Madayne, had become a fierce warrior that saved his life a dozen times on the battlefield. Her daughter's husband – Bors' fifith son - had succumbed all the same.

After a few days of mourning, his beautiful daughter begged him to take them away. And all those Sarmatian families, and many Brittonic ones, decided to leave Camelot behind before it would be swarmed with Saxons. Gawain, Galahad and their respective families followed him to the end of the world. Bors just as well, with whatever remained of his brood. So in they walked, and rode. Three thousand miles, passing through the remains of the Roman empire. They lost more men on the way, good warriors, protectors of their eclectic caravan who passed through Huns territory and barbarian lands. And still they followed him, albeit winter hurled at them, and days were short enough to have them huddle in the forests. A reminder of another time, a suicide mission when Dagonet had still ben alive. Had it been so long, already ? Who remembered the giant man ?

At last, they found some land and struck a bargain with the Huns in west Sarmatia. The earth wasn't great, but they had skill, and will. They worked their asses off, reverting to the old ways. Tristan became their leader, the 'Khan', taking his makeshift village from plain to plain as the weather led them, breeding horses, selling to whomever wanted the best warhorses on the world. For a time, they settled by the back sea, much to his wife's delight. Frances, being part Irish, spent countless hours basking in the caress of the warm waves.

And he, like the lovesick fool he was, sent his children to work while he indulged in a little rest – the privilege of being old, and their chieftain - watching over his wife. The way her tunic clung to her curves, the way her long reddish hair fell upon her breasts, the way she moved like a water spirit. Those were the happiest years of his life, the most beautiful of memories… until the four remaining spawns of hell – his - descended the hill like a pack of yelling wolves and joined his wife after a hard day's work. And even if, always, he addressed a prayer to his ancestors to take care of Evhan, Tristan found himself dragged into the sea more often than not.

He was proud of them, his children. They were hard working, level headed people. And fearsome fighters, even though Madayne could beat them all. Hell, she even beat him now whenever he dared sparring with her. A true heir, destined to become their next chieftain. For no one contested that right. Tristan had led them here, but Madayne would be the cement to this impromptu colony.

Tribe wars led them further north, where the winds were harsher, but the lands more prolific. Tristan stood tall, an arm around Frances' waist, as they both greeted the sea one last goodbye. And time flew so fast… Four different Hawks already had been his friend, and died. Yet, Tristan always had a bird in sigh whenever he left the yurt.

Today was no exception. High above, in the cloudless sky, Hawk let on its piercing cry. Tristan lifted his head, nearly stumbling for the weight he carried – his very thin wife – took a toll on his weakened arms. The former knight tightened his hold, squinting to spot the bird before he resumed his walk. One step further, and another. He could not give up. He was not a man to back down from a challenge; exhaustion had never won against his will. One last battle, then…

His breath created volutes in the freezing air, and Tristan shivered. A long time ago, as a young man, he'd been unbothered by the cold. But now there wasn't so much meat on his bones, and even less fat than before. Not much insulation, as his beloved wife would say. The bundle in his arms coughed, long heart wrenching spasms that wracked her whole frame. Tristan paused to kiss her sweaty brow, the shape of his lips molding over her skin tenderly. A tiny whimper answered him, causing him to smile.

— "Not much longer now. We'll be here soon", he told her tenderly.

Another cough answered and Tristan resumed his walking. And albeit the muscles of his legs screamed in agony, his arms froze in the effort and his breath was shorter than after a sparring session with Gawain – the ancestors bless his soul – the knight didn't back down. Step after step, he climbed the hill. Tristan walked through the forest onto familiar paths, his eyes taking in the trees, bushes and streams he knew by heart. Then his feet passed the clearing threshold, and he could only marvel at the sight of the frozen landscape under the fierce light of the sun.

Then, at last, when he though that he would not be able to walk another step, Tristan slowly lowered Frances against a boulder. The movement woke her up, and she coughed again disturbing the eerie peace of the forest. He crashed by her side more than he sat, his muscles stiff, his body half frozen already. Then he circled Frances's shoulder with an arm, the other pulling the cloak over them both to share a moment of peace. The snow melting below their entwined bodies didn't register much. Little by little, the ice brought them the comfort of numbness.

Frances' head turned, her wrinkled and tired face searching his eyes and Tristan smiled at her. His beloved companion, always there, not matter what. She'd been his strongest friend, his unwavering support through it all. Her admiration had kept him going in the direst times, her care healed his wounds, her patience soothed his soul. Today, it was time to repay her for her love. Staying by her side in this moment was the only way he knew how.

And through this last kiss, he conveyed how he had loved her, and loved her still, and would continue do so in death. Grabbing her little hand, he pressed it to his chest. Frances' smile wasn't sad; it could have melted the ice over the great river. For a moment of eternity, he gazed into her golden flecked eyes, remembering all those moments they had shared, good and bad, joyful and heart wrenching, grateful for her presence as she was grateful for his. What they left behind – their children their legacy – was strong enough to fend from themselves. He was immensely proud for her gift; to mingle her blood with his, and show him how worthy his character was to create others out of it.

Frances' head settled over his chest and the wind swept his cloak over them in hopes of freezing them away. And little by little, Tristan felt her heart slow down, his fingers start to freeze, and his body grow numb. Yet he never let go. When Frances' expired her last breath, he kept her close against his chest. The sun dipped below the horizon, taking with it the last day of his wife's existence – his little seamstress. And as the night settled its heavy blanket over him, Tristan felt her soul tugging at him. His eyes closed by themselves and his chest heaved one last time. He had not a care in the world, for he was about to die in his woman's arms, and his soul would flee to find her in the afterlife. He sighed in relief.

The last breath of Tristan, fearsome scout and mighty warrior, made no sound in the sleeping forest. A piercing cry was heard in the sky, the cry of a Hawk freed from bonds.

Peace.

**_So. I cried, honestly, writing this. I wish I am as peaceful and content as they are when I die. I wish it to everyone, to know that your children can have a good life, and that you've done your part in the world when you leave this planet. And if you can, give me a wave from up there._**


	21. Chapter 21 - The axe and the log part I

_**Hey ! So I've seen 'Polar' with the excellent Mads Mikkelsen. Didn't like the movie much, too graphic for me. But... it was an excellent occasion to write about my favourite couple, aka Frances and Tristan. I hope you enjoy. This will be a short story.**_

'Blam'

The file landed on the table like the mighty sword of Damoclès. Frozen, Shadow swallowed her mouthful of coffee – yuck, she hated coffee ! – to repress the shudder than ran up her spine. The Black Kaiser. They wanted her to kill the Black Kaiser. Duncan Vizla. Heaven be damned… But her persona, the indifferent cold-hearted killer, must hold. The organization she worked with could turn against her in the blink of an eye if they saw her falter. But how could she not ?

— "There was an incident, we face a diplomatic crisis."

Shadow squinted behind her huge sunglasses, her eyes travelling across the blonde woman that faced her. Long honey waves styled like a 50's movie stards, bright blue eyes, heart shaped face and a body to kill for tightly wrapped in a dress… and fear in her eyes. Picking up the file, Shadow gave her target one last look before she closed it in a swift gesture. Unafraid, and act for the fidgety gorgeous blond woman who faced her.

But inside, her mind was screaming. For those eyes, those cheekbones were her only memory of… before. Or the recurring dreams of a past life, perhaps, or ancestors she didn't know. Tristan, the knight she had loved until his demise… How had she recognized him in a simple glance ? Easy, the picture didn't hide his eyes nor the proeminent cheekbones. Two features that danced in her mind more often than not. Aside from the nightmares, that is.

And he was her next target. Who would the man be, today ? A ruthless, hateful killer like herself ? Did he deserve to die ? Probably so… By her hand ? That would be the ultimate irony. If she didn't manage in the span of a month, they would send another. And another until the man lay splattered on the walls of his own house. A pity, for he rather cut a handsome figure. Steeling herself, Shadow gazed at the pin-up through her dark sunglasses.

— "I'll find him", she said, her voice unwavering as she stood.

The blond woman seemed to swallow. Personal connection to the man then… had she slept with him ? A surge of jealousy sprang through her chest, repressed at once. The blonde was afraid, as she should be.

— "Be careful. His skill is unmatched", she said.

— "So is mine", she purred.

All muscles coiled, dressed in tight fitting black leather from head to toe, Shadow nodded to the blond pin-up. Who, in this nasty business, had never heard about the Black Kaiser ? Government and officials trembled before him… even his bosses kept him happy to prevent from watching over their shoulders. It made sense, really, for Tristan had been the fiercest of warriors. No pity, no mercy for the enemy. People kept out of his way.

She merged in the shadows of the coffee house, the folder tightly clutched in her hand.

Today was the first day of the rest of her life.

Shadow rather enjoyed the view. All around her, leaves danced in the mid-autumn wind, detaching one by hand to land upon the floor in a messy pile of gold and red. Their movement created a rustling that hid her presence easily, her whole body woven around the trunk like a salamander. Her warm chocolate eyes could barely discern the man she was observing in between branches; it was enough to keep him in sight.

For three weeks she had searched, roaming the country from house to house only to find tenants and squatters… twenty-three days of misery where her mind rolled and rolled, day and night, about the situation. Paid to kill, yet unable to decide whether she would be able to do it.

For twenty-three days, she had barely left two messages to the blonde lady – Vivian, the Damocles employee. She was a shadow, unaffiliated to any organization until now. The one they called when they needed a swift death that wouldn't create ripples. Her name suited her well; she was but a shadow in people's lives, just a trail of darkness in companies' history as she never appeared, by name, anywhere. Untracked, untrailed, unattached, invisible to the world. In the world of hitmen, she was barely a notion.

And to see, today, Damocles ordering his own employee's death only comforted her in her choice. No one could be trusted. Being a solo had its perks, but also its setbacks. Creating a network, for example, with weapon providers, accountants and administration people had taken a while. On the other hand, no one knew who she was, or where her feet took her. Shadow didn't really exist.

'Twack'

Another log landed on the pile, neatly cloven in two. Winter was coming, and she didn't doubt its harshness in such a place. The wooden cabin sat at the roots of the mountains, and already the wind sent shivers through her frame. But Duncan Vizla seemed unaware as sweat dripped across his bare shoulders. Muscles glistened as he worked, log after log piling up beside the cabin. Precise and neat, he never missed a blow. The axe fell upon the log with incredible regularity, and she couldn't tear her eyes from his form.

He was a little more massive than the man in her dreams, still, she could clearly recognize his form. Tall, lithe and efficient, every fiber on display when the axe pulled at his arms and shoulder. A man used to make his body work, his moves filled with purpose. His dark brown hair, mid-lenght, danced about his face at each stroke. A strand often came to stick across his cheek, emphasizing the sharp bone so characteristic of his origins. Tristan had sported two sets of tattoes, claws, a tribal mark from his distant homeland. East. Just like Vizla. The thick moustache, nearly lost in the unkempt stubble that covered his well-defined chin, gave him a peculiar air.

He was different, but not overly so. And his essence… The aura of control and danger that exuded from his frame. Definitely the same one as the knight of old that sometimes danced in her dreams.

His gun rested on a table mere yards away, in full view. Even at home, the Black Kaiser never tempted fate. It probably was the furthest his weapon could ever be from him. And even then, it wasn't enough. For Shadow could have taken him down many a time. In the city, for example, or here, at his home. She wasn't one for sniping much, preferring to come a little closer and see the people she was killing rather than hide away like a coward. Still, in those woods, there were plenty of placed where one could hide and land a bullet in his head.

Right now. Gun in hand, Shadow still hesitated. She felt stupid as well, stalking him high perched in a tree when she could end his life right now and honour her contract. If she didn't… Damoclès would have her hide, and all her former employers would refuse to hire her again. At best. At worst, she'd be the next one on the list. Everything she had built over the year, careful steps and scheming, persona building and training, could crumble the moment she refused to put that bullet in his head. Adjusting her position upon her branch, the young woman exhaled slowly and aimed. Her hands were trembling, her stomach clenching, her chest constricting in despair. Just a tiny pressure to pull the trigger, and she would be free to resume her life again…

Her empty, loveless life filled with casual sex, blood and ugliness.

The rustle of leaves made her head snap aside, weapon automatically following her line of sight. Holding her breath, Shadow squinted to distinguish the enemy that sent alarm bells in her system. Adrenalin ran freely into her veins, her heart hammering, muscles coiled in anticipation. Until the leaves rustled again, giving way to a tiny rusty squirrel. Shadow would have laughed if a strange pressure had not spread through her lungs. Something had changed. It wasn't the tiny breeze, not the faint noises of the forest… it was…

Shadow realized, too late, that the steady rhythm of the axe was missing.

A woosh was her only warning as said axe came rushing at her, spinning on its axis with deadly precision.

Her reflexes saved her from a painful scalping, her body jerking backwards before her brain could process it. The sudden movement also deported her from the branch she was crouching upon, and down she went without any hope to regain her balance.

Shirtless, Duncan cursed himself for his naiveté. Even at home, even after leaving four fake addresses and living in a cabin in the middle of the woods, he would never be safe. But who could possibly be crazy enough to dare attacking the black Kaiser ? His long strides took him the table when his gun rested when a painful cry echoed in the woods. Feminine, definitely, he noted as he reached for the weapon. One more yard, and the Black Kaiser would be rightfully armed. He extended his hand to the table, intend on swirling around the moment his fingers found the cold metal of his favourite gun. One more yard that he never got the chance to cover as gunshots sounded in the forest.

Duncan jolted backwards, incredulous. One more shot and his gun was flung from the table, damaged beyond repair by the precise bullets that hit it squarely. Incredible ! As he retreated swiftly to his original position, the Kaiser's quick mind couldn't help but register that the woman had taken his weapon out of reach with a skillfull shot but not buried a bullet into his skull. She probably wanted him to talk… but why not cripple him then ? Whatever. A dire mistake; she'd pay for it.

His hands worked on their own accord as they grabbed two piece of a log he'd just cleaved and lifted his eyes to the prawling form that advanced to meet him. He knew who she was at once, or so he thought. Shadow.

They had never worked together – Black Kaiser and Shadow mutually excluded themselves - but any hitman knew of her. Long mane of fiery hair, Kevlar vest, tight leather pants, the crawl of a panther and a reputation to die for. Literally.

In any other circumstance, he might have admired the fluidity of her moves and the gentle curves of her toned silhouette. Duncan was partial to beautiful women… but this one might very well prove to be her downfall. If his attacker really was Shadow, he wouldn't make the mistake to underestimate her.

He launched the first piece of log with all his might, the other following suit. The woman blinked, as if she couldn't believe he'd really done that. Then she twisted aside like a feline, ondulating out of the way. The first log passed her face by mere inches.

'Twack'

Her cry was laced with anger; her weapon lost with the force of the blow upon her slender wrist. Somehow, her anguished voice tightened his chest with an unknown feeling. As is something was bleeding inside of him. Strange. Duncan didn't dwell on this strange un unwelcome sensation, pressing his advantage. There was no future, no past and no distractions in a fight. Nothing but th present. She was weaponless; he unsheathed the hunting knife from his belt and charged at full speed before she could recover.

Warm chocolate eyes widened at his boldness. In the seconds it took Duncan to reach her, Duncan noted how the leather and Kevlar would protect her body from bullets and blades. His whole frame dwarfed her; with his height, he probably weighed forty pounds more than she did. If he could crash into her full force, she'd be unconscious upon impact. But instead of twisting away, the young woman barely flinched and launched herself forward to meet him head on.

Mad woman !

At the last moment, she lurched to the left, avoiding his knife to the throat and deviating his arm in an aikido esquive he knew all too well. Duncan humoured her, allowing his right hand to be swatted away to slam his left fist into her ribs instead. That would teach her to give a man so massive some momentum. The woman barely grunted although he could feel the crack beneath his fingers. Duncan almost winced in sympathy. Almost. Yet something within rebelled against his own actions and he buried the need to protect mercilessly in the depths of his soul.

That woman was a danger to his life. Already, she was meeting him head on. So fast, so flexible, slippery like a fish in a stream as she twisted and turned to avoid his blunt blows. Her fiery hair, a mix or brown and deeper red, danced around him. Her dance allowed her to land a few of her own, nothing crippling or lethal, just enough for him to grunt and slow down. Until she crouched down, avoiding another hit, and took advantage of her position to land an uppercut that rattled his teeth. Damn, she had mean punch ! The next second, Duncan staggered back as her foot percuted his plexus. The hitman heaved, his chest refusing to take the much-needed breaths.

But she didn't press her advantage, staring with heated eyes, taking in the full expense of him as if… as if he was the most precious man in the world. Reddish strands framed her face, escaped from the tight braid, some sticking to her skin where bead of sweats rolled down her temples. Despite the mighty bruise he'd probably sport later, Duncan couldn't help the surge of admiration. Shadow definitely was a woman who called to him respect, be it from her skills or her singular beauty. For her features were lovely, just as much as the intensity of a warm chocolate eyes. Very different from the usual classic beauties he sometimes worked with, especially Vivian. No, she held a different type… something warm, hidden behind the mask. Something he could nearly touch with his fingers. And few survived a fight with him. Yet… she wasn't the first beautiful and deadly woman he met. Her chest heaved; she, too, was trying to regroup.

Duncan pushed the pressure away, taking a forced breath to regain his internal balance. Too bad for her; she didn't cripple him when she had the chance. Tightening his grip on the hunting knife, he planted his feet on the ground, ready to lash out. The young woman smirked then, rolling her shoulders to remove her leather jacket with catlike grace. The sleeves slid down her arms in such a sensual dance that he couldn't help but blink; a tigress in bed ? Then she adapted her stance, leather jacket stretched between her hands as she invited him. Just a tiny lift of her eyebrows, a cynical expression that should have vexed him profoundly. But the Back Kaiser wasn't one to give in to those emotions. Analytical and quick thinking were the reason he was still alive today.

Slowly, he took the time to circle her, hunting knife at the ready, muscles glistening with sweat. She barely shifted her feet, following his every move, feet attuned to the disparities of the ground; she expected a snakelike strike. There was no way around this unless he accepted to back off. Duncan eventually attacked. A feint to the right with the knife, then his fist lunging at her. She dodged his blow with a swift rotation – his mistake for pulling the same move again – sending him slightly off balance. This time though, she pressed her advantage, lunging at him to gather his right hand and twist the leather jacket around. One mighty pull on the fabric sent the hunting knife clattering upon the rocks.

— "Olé!", she said, hopping away from him to kick the weapon away before he could reach it.

Her exclamation rooted him to the spot, and Duncan couldn't help but remark the twinkle in her eye. Almost as if she was enjoying herself. At last, she had found someone that measured up to her. The reverse was also true… a long-lost memory, a dream perhaps slammed into his mind. The memory of warm chocolate eyes taunting him at swordpoint. Sparring.

The truth was, he was starting to enjoy himself as well. Be it from this strange vision, or the challenge he didn't know.

The fight increased in intensity, all weapons discarded as if decided by an unspoken agreement. Few blows landed as Shadow danced around him, avoiding his powerful hits while she fled. She was so fast that it gave him a headache; the damn woman was taking advantage of his bulk. What she lacked in blunt force she gained in speed and agility. A spirit of the forest, with her red hair contrasting with its greenery. After a while, Duncan was quite sure that she avoided hitting him in crippling places. For her blows held power, they were dry and harsh upon his muscles. And even if his guard was up and his body well protected, there were two times, at least, when he knew she could have knocked him out.

Would she kill him when she was done playing ? Torture him ? Locking eyes with her, Duncan felt her attention falter a moment too long. His fists shot out for a direct hit; she twisted at the latest moment, his blow landing upon her back instead of her plexus. Shadow rolled away with a painful expression, stopping two feet from the tree she had fallen from. He should have pounced, should have finished her while she wobbled back on her feet. But he didn't, unsettled by her pain. As if the world itself should crumble down that he had dared lay a hand upon her ! How could he ?

At loss, Duncan dove upon her like a beast, intending to use his more massive frame to pin her to the tree behind her. He could always head butt… the rest, he would figure out later. Her eyes widened in shock as he lunged. She moved at the very last moment, using a skillful swerve to grasp his neck and shove him head first into the trunk. Stars exploded before his very eyes, a groan gracing his collision with the bark. Sneaky woman !

Panting, he took a moment to gather himself while his meaty arms hugged the trunk. Then something caught his eye. Her glock lay on the ground not a yard away !

— "Are you allright ?"

Her voice was unsure, regretful and he couldn't make heads or tails of it. She attacked him and now seemed almost worried. Perhaps the rumors of Shadow being batshit crazy were true after all. Without turning around, Duncan maintained the fainting act as he left his body sink to the ground lazily. There. His fingers grasped the gun; he whirled around, aiming at her head.

Shadow's face fell, her warm eyes widening in sadness rather than horror. As if she accepted her death already, but regretted it altogether. The agony of her emotions sent pangs of angst through his chest, as if he could feel her despair seeping into his own mind. How could this cold hearted killer be so expressive ? It just made no sense at all…

His finger tightened on the trigger. One tiny movement, and she would be but a memory. The Black Kaiser's triumph once more. The only issue; he would never know who sent her.

'Pull the trigger', sung his mind.

'Please don't', her eyes pleaded. Her fiery mane of hair, her hands, her silhouette, her moves. The tiny chin and rosy lips. High cheekbones over a small upturned nose … everything about her suddenly seemed familiar.

His soul was screaming so loud that he felt like covering his ears and crumbling to the floor.

His hand twitched.

— "Tristan !"

Her heartfelt plea leaved him more winded that the mighty blow she'd send to his plexus. How did she know his real name ? No one save him knew of the name his mother bestowed upon him… before the Black Kaiser. His finger tensed, his arm trembling. One milimeter further, and she would be dead. Lifeless, her blood oozing into the ground, her face pale. The image sent dread pooling in his stomach. Why was her prospective demise so terrifying ? What was it that stalled his hand when he had never hesitated to end a life ? Why did it feel so wrong to hold her at gun point, to be the one to threaten rather than protect ? And her eyes, the endless pool of warmth searching his face… how could he ever forget what it felt to delve into their most prized secrets ?

Eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, Duncan hesitated just a second.

A second was all it took for her to move.

"Bang !"


	22. Chapter 22 - The axe and the log part II

**_Hey Koba ! So glad to read form you. I hope you're well. Sorry Tobi, I had forgotten to post it. This is now done !_**

**_This piece has been so much fun to write. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Here is the conclusion. I hope you can handle a 'little' smut :p_**

The bullet whizzed past her head. Duncan started, horrified that his reflexes had pulled the trigger in his stead – had she been a little slower, her blood would be pooling at his feet right now – Her hand grabbed his wrist in a keyhole to retrieve the gun. Her touch was too gentle to trigger the alarm, her brown gaze too open for him to struggle back. The gun fell to the ground with his blessing; acceptance. Duncan was tired, his survival instinct crumbling down beneath her fingers. She didn't pick the weapon, her warm hand still enclosing his forearm. A sharp tug sent him off balance and he tumbled forward. Shadow reached for his neck with a snake move. There. Death at her hand, was it so bad ?

Her lips suddenly crashed on his own, desperate, hungry. Not in a million years did he try to resist; it felt so right that he wondered how he had lived without the feeling of her tongue swiping at his lips. She released his arm to circle his frame – trusting – one of her hand sliding across his shoulder to pull him further down. Duncan grunted slightly; she'd done a merry work of bruising him all over. But then, so had he. And despite her cracked ribs, she didn't protest when he pulled her up against the trunk that had so nicely bumped his head a moment before. His whole frame pushed against her, warmth against warmth, his sheer size dwarfing hers. At once, she lifted a leg to circle his back in an attempt to pull him closer.

Duncan moaned into the kiss, nowhere ready to surrender. Fire trailed in his veins; longing and need bottled up for too many years to keep count. And he tasted her like a parched man, need echoing in the confines of his chest. Something so different than lust… She was, right now, the air he barely breathed and he wondered what would be left when… she killed him ? His tongue begged for entrance; she greeted him with enthusiasm, opening her mouth to invite him in. She tasted heavenly, feminine and sweet, something whores and one-night stands could never really compare to. Would she give him a good time before… ?

For he knew who she was. Shadow. As skilled as the Black Kaiser to dispatch, very subtle, never brutal, mostly unseen. They said people died in her arms almost willingly, begging her to release them from this brutal life. Duncan understood why now; he was ready so surrender. Ready to die.

Her body was a piece of paradise. Fit, yet soft, moulding around him as her hands left trails of fire upon the bare skin of his chest. Duncan ached to undress her, to remove the thin waistcoat of Kevlar that kept him from her essence. His hands fumbled to unzip it while his mouth devored hers, tongues swirling. She whimpered with satisfaction when the garment fell from her open arms, nails and fingertips returning to his sweaty form. One of his hands circled her waist to pull her flush, the other exploring under the form fitting t-shirt she wore. A moan responded to his wandering – as if his touch alone could undo her - while his hand roamed her soft skin. She was so warm, so inviting that he felt his trousers getting tighter by the second.

— "Please…", she rasped.

And her low-pitched purr was like music to his ears. He knew, in that instant, that she wasn't toying with him. He'd paid too many women to moan for him. Breaking the kiss, she watched his face intently, reverently, and Duncan couldn't quite believe what he saw in her eyes. Awe… and tears. His heavy breath made the fiery strands dance about her face, and for just a second, he could swear he was seeing the same woman with a crackling fire behind her, a medieval shift tumbled about her waist. The vision was gone the moment she broke eye contact and Duncan shuddered. What sorcery was this ?

A sharp intake of breath later, his pants and briefs were pooling around his legs. He was at her mercy… Entirely exposed. Her own leather trousers, discarded, left her naked save for her t-shirt. Duncan yanked the offending piece of cotton off her frame as he kissed his way from neck to jaw. Her bra fell into the leaves barely a second later. Her bare flesh called to him like a siren calling the sailor at sea, neither of them knowing if they would emerge unscathed from their depths. Still, resisting would be useless. Duncan hoisted her up against the tree, her legs circling his waist instantly, her soft body yielding to his in a silent plea.

Entering her was akin to finding home again. Not this poor substitute of a refuge. No. THE home, the one place were solace existed and peace flooded one's soul. Duncan gasped in her neck, his body tingling with joy at her touch, bruises forgotten. She took him easily, so tight yet so welcoming at the same time, voicing her pleasure in a startling gasp. He didn't get time to ask if he had hurt her; she was already calling him further in, meeting his desperate thrusts with her own, her hips dancing around his frame with sensuality. Duncan pushed into her, hands travelling to support her, another at her nape as he grunted his pleasure. She claimed his lips once more, encouraging him to keep his pace. Then she abandoned his mouth to muffle her cries against his shoulder, dancing against his coiled body.

For sure, Duncan knew how to please a woman. But no one had ever reacted to him so strongly. And while his own pleasure soared, he couldn't remember a time he had felt so good, so accepted, so cherished, so strong. For her hands were everywhere, begging him, loving him. This wasn't a good fuck, no. She was making love with more passion than the fires of hell. Kissing him, tasting him, caressing, coaxing until he could take no more and reached a mind-blowing state of bliss. And all thoughts of doom fled his mind, past and future set aside in favor of the searing present, her body smoldering against him.

Duncan didn't last long the first time, really. Nor the second either as he just carried her off to his bed to take her anew, a mere slave from an ancient need to bond. Her body was so pliable in his hands, responding like the wind, setting his own desire ablaze. The third time was taken at a slower pace as she took control, and he swore he had never seen anything so remotely inspiring than her body twitching and shuddering in pleasure within the safe circle of his arms. Then he started to feel a little sated. Barely a little, as if he had to make up for a lifetime of loneliness. The fourth time would have to wait for a much-needed conversation.

While his mind started functioning again, she idly traced the contours of his face with awe. An expression he had never seen, even less directed at him. From up close, she was even lovelier.

— "You are very handsome", she eventually said. "But you would be even more with a beard. Or without. Moustache isn't for you, handsome"

And the look in her eyes was so distant that he wondered if she, too, remember this woman that resembled her so much.

— "Who are you ?", he asked.

— "Shadow", she whispered against his chest.

Duncan nodded gruffly.

— "I know. Who were you, in those ancients days ?"

The young woman regarded him quizzically, cheeks still rosy from their earlier exertions, hair unbound like a halo of fire. So beautiful… Her eyes softened as she took in his features, and if remembering long lost times.

— "I have no idea. But the only memory I have is your name. Tristan…"

Duncan took a sharp intake of breath. So this is how she knew his name. Perhaps it was time to revert to his past self after all. But she wasn't finished.

— "And I loved you."

Deep amber eyes interrogated warm chocolate, seemingly asking if it could be the case again. And if their lovemaking was an indication, it might very well be. They knew nothing of each other… yet. Could this ancient love be rekindled ?

— "Is this why you didn't kill me ?"

The young woman shifted with a wince, bruised ribs protesting, and lay her head down upon his belly as she dragged the sheets upon her chest.

— "Partly."

— "And the other part ?"

She sighed.

— "I want this life to end."

There were no explanations needed to understand her meaning. She, too, was sick of killing. Whatever her past and the reasons that he brought her in this business, she had passed her point of no return.

— "So do I", he affirmed. "What is your name ?"

— "My real one ?"

Duncan nodded, wondering is she would be amenable to reveal it.

— "Frances. Can I call you Tristan ?"

— "Not now. Once this is all over, I will be Tristan again"

And he didn't tell her how badly he wanted her to be his again, nor what he planned for the future for he wasn't quite sure he would survive to see another day.

— "I was sent to kill you"

— "I gathered that. Didn't make such a good job, right ?"

He was taunting her, and she knew it.

— "Well I found you. And I had plenty of clean shots for the three past days, but I couldn't. I am drawn to you, as if I you were my other half"

Duncan pursed his lips, her declaration sinking in a he thought of those unwanted feeling that had flooded him while he defended himself against her. His other half, eh ?

— "Who sent you ?", he eventually asked.

— "Your boss. Damoclès, through Vivian"

Duncan swore in his mother tongue, calling a smile to Frances' lips.

— "What happened ?", she asked.

The lines of his face seemed to grow deeper, ten years of self-loathing and anguish sinking upon his shoulders. Unshed tears shone in his eyes, and the usually collected killer didn't feel ashamed to show her how vulnerable he could be. The heart was still there, buried under traumas and regrets. Slowly, as if the words weighted a ton in his mouth, he started recounting his story"

— "I screwed up. Or they screwed up, the intel was wrong. I shot at the driver, then inside… But when the door opened…"

Duncan shut his eyes, swallowing uneasily. The memory was so blunt, so bright in his memory. There was nothing he could do to relieve his conscience. The dread was still there whenever he thought of it. The arm that slid out of the open backdoor, the pregnant woman's body, strewn on the floor, holding her belly. The little boy's open eyes, gazing at the sky. And hers… the child's stare, burning, terrified, watching his face as he held her at gunpoint.

— "I killed an entire family, except for this girl. I cannot forget her eyes, I will never forget it."

Sensing his pain, Frances could only hug him within an inch of his life. His hands circled her tightly, his chest shaking unevenly as he swallowed the pain. The heartless killer, undone by the horrified gaze of a child he had orphaned.

Many hours passed, without any of them moving from the bed.

It was weird, how Trist… Duncan seemed to fit in her life so easily. As if he had always been there. As if she'd found him anew, and they were now a complete entity. She trusted him to watch her back, even as she lay, naked, her legs intertwined with the sheets. And she knew she'd battle death for him, her heart beating in synch with this man she barely knew. It was the same tingle that had stilled her hand whenever she wanted to pull the trigger. At last, they both fell asleep, exhausted by the emotional rollercoster and the exertion of their fight… and the substantial physical activity that came afterwards.

Duncan started awake when Frances stirred, surprised that he'd slept so soundly.

— "What now?", he said.

— "Dinner ?"

Her teasing reply called a smirk to his lips. Yes. Food would be in order, but not only. They needed to plan their escape.

— "How about Damoclès ?"

The hitman watched Frances as she became Shadow once more, the lines of her face tensing, the light in her eyes becoming more fierce.

— "I think you should die… figuratively"

Duncan tensed instantly, but refrained from chocking the like out of the woman that still laid upon his chest.

— "What did you have in mind ?", his smooth voice said, betraying nothing of the turmoil inside.

— "I'll send them a picture, we need to make this convincing. We'll use the money from the contract and disappear. I am not affiliated to any company, they'll never find me. As for you…"

— "I'll be dead"

Dead, all his money gone, and all his belongings left behind. Anything that had been Duncan Vizla left to rot, forgotten to the world. The sum of his whole career… Perhaps it was better this way, to leave Duncan behind and become Tristan again. To start something new, away from the mess of his life, away from killing.

And while pizza was delivered at Duncan's little cabin, Frances remained hidden in the bathroom; she couldn't afford to be seen. With her long fiery hair, she was way too recognizable. The planning was hard work; moving money to other accounts, considering a change of looks, getting out of town without Duncan being recognized, getting in touch with numerical professionals to create a picture realistic enough for his own death…

The day after, Shadow called Vivian, as if in pain. She made a good show of being wounded, her breath short, sharp winces uttered as she moved, limping, to show Duncan's body to the dreaded Damoclès. He lay, sprawled upon the floor of his own cabin, fake blood pooling around his head. The conversation was short enough; pretending to be hurt and yelling curses had the expected effect. Vivian didn't ask for details. Duncan Vizla was dead.

The money was transferred during the day, and by the next morning, Frances had cut and died her hair blond. Tristan shaved his whiskers, and cut his hair so short he was barely recognizable. There. They were ready. No one, in Twin Oaks, though twice about the car that left town with a tall man folded in the trunk. As for the body… nothing was left behind. The cabin burnt for a long time before any fireman showed up.

_Three years later…_

Long fingers enclosed the little envelope, its roughness barely acknowledged as he tried to keep it in one piece. This letter … this letter could mean so much. Either peace, or war. Tristan shoved the loose strands of his hair behind his ear; it was long enough to be ruffled by the everlasting breezes of the high plains.

Sighing, he willed his legs to start moving towards the shore, raising dust from the path. The blue waters of Lake Titicaca, so deep, always brought him solace. Nightmare still plagued his mind, regrets, doubts and death following his thoughts like a well-deserved revenge. For three long years, Tristan had learnt to live again. Built the wooden cabin that sheltered him, traded with the locals, found a simple routine. But despite the calm that seeped into his bones when he worked with his hands, he'd never been able to shed his guilt.

Hence the letter.

A mane of fiery hair shone on the bridge, the tips discoloured and dyed blond. Frances slowly wove a woollen belt, using medieval techniques that asked for her concentration. It prevented her thoughts from wandering too much. Wandering to the death she had dealt for fifteen years.

Their love was strong, sturdy, yet distant. They both struggled with the ghosts of the past. Entire days could pass without them speaking. Sometimes, smiles bloomed on her face, and he found her beautiful in the sunlight. But mostly, sadness burdened her shoulders. Still was beautiful, but so far away. Lost in her memories. Together, they rode the path to redemption. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that they were the only family left to each other.

There would be no children; they were both too broken to take care of another soul. As if their lives were suspended… They still might be found, any day from now. Might be chased, hunted like cattle, and executed. The future was as uncertain as the past had been. But she was here, just like she'd been fifteen hundred years ago on the battlefield. How sad, that their love had been so tainted. Sometimes he dreamt of the warrior he had been, Tristan, knight of the round table. And his spouse, the lovely Frances. Innocent and carefree Frances, who had given him a brood of children, and healed the sick in a harsh world.

Yet…

They'd been happy, passionate, and their bond had endured many hardships.

Today, they were but shells of the past. Their love, still here, still strong, felt like an undercurrent in an Ocean of anger. Just a cord, stretched by the waves, that kept them from drifting apart without never allowing them to cling to each other.

Companions of silence. Companions of life. Companions of death.

Frances spotted him and smiled. Sadness always mingled in her expression, but there still was the twinkle in her eyes when he came near. Tristan approached and sat behind her on the wooden bridge, his gaze lost into the ripples created by the breeze. She snuggled against his frame, eagerly sharing his warmth. Spring was coming, the sun already gracing the high plains of Peru, yet not enough to shed her heavy tunic. How different she was from the woman he'd known. Shadow; clad in leather and Kevlar. She was no less mesmerising.

Tristan kissed her hair, and she reclined against him. He was her anchor, as she was his. They stayed for a while, watching the spotless sky brighten as the sun travelled the spotless sky, the envelope still held between his fingers. Then, at last, Tristan spoke.

— "It is done," he said

And Frances nodded. Done. The letter addressed to this child, the only survivor of the family he had killed by mistake.

— "She'll find us, someday" Frances said.

Tristan didn't even answer, burying his head into her fiery mane instead. Yes. This girl would grow, and find them. Kill him maybe, or not. Assuage her revenge, or only ask him why he'd shot them. Perhaps she'd never come, but he doubted.

And when she would, all hell would break loose again.


	23. Chapter 23 - God - part I

_**This is going to be very, very different. Spiritual, even. I'm not sure if you people will enjoy it but hell, I'm writing it so I'll just keep it here. Different frame of mind, different life.**_

Stability. This little church, lost on the side of the busy street, always seemed to watch over wanderers without ever ageing. Its white stones, eaten away by rain and pollution, still stood despite the centuries. Despite the deliquescence of the religion that had, once, reigned over the western part of the world. Despite the fact that men had stopped believing in HIM and his principles, wreaking havoc in the world without ever realising how far they'd strayed from the path of righteousness. Had generosity, grace, love becomes a foreign concept? Had money replaced honour? Possession crushed fairness of the mind?

How did they survive, the people that still chose this religious path, in such a world?

Frances watched, eyes squinted against the sunlight, the tall building that so often caught her gaze when she went to the city centre. There, like a rock, but invisible to the world. She wasn't a religious woman; far from it. At home, she'd heard more antireligious pamphlets that she could have found in leftist newspapers. Daughter of a communist and a socialist, granddaughter of a man who's forbidden the clergy to lay hand on his son – her father – under the pretext that he had brains. He would be an engineer, not a scholar in an institution of lies! Vade Retro, Catholic Church!

But today… Today her feet carried her over the threshold of the gothic structure. Her grandmother's plea, echoing in the back of her brain, begging to share the joy she had once felt whenever she set foot in the small parish church. A way to honour this side of the family; unknown people only mentioned in yearly gatherings.

Music greeted her ears, a pure sound of male voices echoing against the walls – just a recording. There was no coldness, and Frances slowly walked forward, surprised to feel at ease. The house of God had been so often castigated in her parents' house… Multicoloured lights filtered through the simple stained glasses, landing every fifteen feet; her path was clear. The voices accompanied her on the way, coaxing softly, gliding around her like little fairies, intertwined in a lament that touched her so deeply that her eyes tingled. Was it the strength of their faith that gave so much power to those people, even when they were not present?

Her shoes were silent on the stones polished by hundreds of faithful in a not so distant past. Today remained only a handful, sitting or kneeling under the arches of the transept. Frances eventually found an icon of the Virgin Mary, a marble statue of no great beauty. At her feet shone dozens of candles; prayers from believers. What had they been thinking whenever they alighted one?

Without hesitation, Frances dropped her bag on the wooden bench to fish out a coin that she slid into the slit. The metal clanged in the empty box that received the donations, echoing against the empty walls. The young woman stilled her hand, peeking around her to make sure she'd not disturbed the peace. No one in sight. Phew.

Her hand trembled as she chose a candle, the flame flickering slightly when she tipped it to light the wick. Just a second before it caught, barely a moment for her to ponder on her wish. Why had she lit that candle? Grandma was dead, and despite the fact that Frances didn't believe in any God, her ancestor did. Sitting on the bench, the young woman watched the flame burn amongst dozens of others, their tiny light flickering with the barest of drafts.

Tears of longing came to her eyes. How she missed her, that woman who had been so important in her life. Just a presence, with funny stories to count, and faith in a God that no one believed in. A weird accent that could have sent her worst teachers into peals of laughter, perhaps Kant himself. What was the difference, really, between followers that blindly looked up to God and philosophers that intended to teach the world to others without ever setting a foot out of their garden?

Who was right? Who was wrong? Grandma never pondered on those things, living her life modestly, never prone to gossip. No car, one house – her own grandmother's – a few rabbits and a set of relatives that had slimed over the years. A woman born in 1921, who had seen war and death, life and simple village gatherings. A woman who bought her meat from the butcher that rounded the village, and her bread likewise. Not even wondering if the goods were better in another place. Again, a simple life that made her happy.

Happy, really? Well, she wasn't unhappy. Her only fear; to be admitted in the hospice where she'd worked during the war. For many years, she never set a foot there. And on the day that the doctor sent her there … she never came back. Like a prophecy. Grandma knew her demise rested beyond those blasted swishing doors. Was it wisdom, or old women's tales?

The truth was that Frances would never know. But she missed her all the same. Society had changed, the world became crazier by the year. The young woman was rather glad her grandmother wasn't here to witness it all. But here, five years after her death, she still missed her. Tears leaked slid down her cheeks, unhindered; if she didn't shed them here, she never would. The lights mingled into stars through the veil of wetness, and for a moment, it almost felt like watching a clear sky.

— "Are you all right?"

The hushed tone didn't prevent Frances from starting on the bench, her heart racing. The accented voice came from her right, but she had trouble distinguishing anything through her tears.

— "Forgive me, I thought you had seen me."

Smooth, with a gentle lilt, his voice was strangely soothing. Had she not been so ashamed of her tears, Frances might have leant over to ask for more. Blinking them away, she titled her head to face the stranger. Clad in the traditional robes adorned with a white collar, a tall man had detached from the shadows of the pillars to approach her. He seemed hesitant, his posture laid-back. From his face, she could only distinguish the high cheekbones and beard that hid his chin.

— "Can I help you?" he eventually said, taking a step forward.

— "Ah … no. I'm afraid not."

The candles flickered wildly as if spooked by his approach, but they shed some light on the stranger. Frances took in his tall stature, and the surprising proud posture on a man of cloth before her eyes settled on his brown hair neatly combed to the side. Frances' thoughts returned to her grandmother, her eyes settling upon her hands.

— "I just … miss her."

And the tears started leaking again. The man approached then sat beside her, giving her space as he watched the candles burn people's wishes and prayers away. Trying to rein her sobs, Frances bit her lip. He didn't move for a long time, a gentle presence, a friend watching over her in grief until she found her voice.

— "I should go," she eventually hiccoughed.

How pitiful she sounded, but the priest by her side only offered her a pristine handkerchief of white cotton. Frances took it shyly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. In the uneven light of the church, they seemed almost grey.

— "If my presence unsettles you, I can leave you in peace."

There was no judgement nor dismissal in his tone – not even a touch of reproach – but red rose to her cheeks nonetheless. Fearing she had hurt his feelings – priest were human beings after all, right? —Frances rushed to explain herself. Her voice felt rough, her words even harsher.

— "No, don't. I just … I never believed in God, nor did my family."

There, it seemed even worse said like that but Frances was never one to lie. And, hidden in the shadows of the pillars, she felt too exhausted to tiptoe around the truth.

— "So you feel this is not your place?"

The priest watched her now, his eyes curious. Open. Devoid of hurt, or anger, or even indignation. There was such wisdom in his gaze, even though he didn't look more than thirty. Something in the way he voiced his thoughts, without an ounce of threat or ego. With the certainty of the truth. As if his soul was thousands of years old.

— "Yeah, maybe," she sighed.

— "God doesn't care much about who believes, or who doesn't. We are all his children."

Silence met his statement, and for a moment neither of them talked. Until she blurted out:

— "But do you?"

A genuine smile quirked the man's lips, hidden by his beard … a goatee, actually, now that she paid attention.

— "I would be quite presumptuous to override God's will," was his smooth reply.

Frances chuckled then, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. For a priest, he certainly had a sense of humour.

— "Your logic do you honour, father…"

— "Tristan. I am father Tristan"

An ancient name, for an ancient soul, she thought.

— "Frances"

The priest only nodded to acknowledge her presentation, and she wondered at his silence. Shyness? Surely not, for he seemed at ease. Like a man of God, intent on guiding a stray sheep back to the fold. She used to despise those men, accusing them of being short-sighted, finding them blind to the world and the reality of things. But here, surrounded by ethereal voices and flickering candles, her rational mind felt weaker than at the university.

His voice, one more, called her back to the present.

— "So what's the story of that candle?"

Frances took a heavy breath, willing for her eyes to stop stinging. But the pain was still raw, the wound never closed. Would acceptance come, someday, and the merry moments populate her memories rather than the harshness of her absence?

— "I just miss her. I wanted to be close to her, to understand her faith."

Her voice was barely a whisper; father Tristan only cocked his head aside.

— "Who was she?" he asked gently.

— "My father's mother… Grandma," she stuttered.

— "I take it you don't come often."

Frances blinked at his attempt at conversation. His smooth voice acted like a balm on her pain, as if, no matter what he said, solace seeped into her bones. For a moment, she wondered if the man was human and not a mystical being, an angel hiding under the frock. One quick glance with her blurry eyes, and she realised he was expecting an answer. Uh.

— "I … Yeah. The last time I set foot in a church was to bury her. Five years ago"

Another silence settled, neither awkward nor long enough for them to feel like breaking it. But Frances wanted to know; why her grandma always chastised her for swearing in the name of God.

— "Why do people come to church, Father?"

The priest's eyebrows rose high, and Frances realised they barely existed. As if they'd been drawn, and blurred afterwards. He wasn't expecting her question, and seemed to think for a while. Good; he wasn't one to answer with platitudes.

— "People come to pray. To think. To clear their minds or simply rest it from a burdensome life. Sometime they come to address the heavens in hope they will guide us."

And despite the shudder than ran up her spine, Frances scoffed. What if people interpreted things the way they wanted to?

— "Do they ever answer?" she replied with an ironic smile.

Father Tristan ignored her impertinent tone, his eyes rising to the stained glasses that flooded the nave with light. A wistful expression settled on his features, something … almost mystical. Then his hazel eyes returned to her, a discreet smile quirking his lips.

— "You'd be surprised. Sometimes, it feels that they do."

— "Right"

What else could she possibly say? That she didn't believe it? That she judged all those people stupid, or naïve for thinking that another could take decisions in their stead? That the world was such an ugly place that no God could ever condone it? That if the almighty existed, he could have prevented slavery, cruelty, disease and hunger to roam the world? What her parents had taught swept all those theories, burying them into the cold, hard ground. Take care of yourself, better you mind, help your friends and do not ever let someone else take control of your life. Frances was an intelligent woman – so much that her mind refused to relent, even at night. No peace for the brainiacs.

But the solace she found in this church … this was unexpected. What if …?

— "Have you ever recited an Ave Maria?"

Startled, Frances frowning at the priest.

— "No, I don't even know the words."

Father Tristan stood, extending his open hand to the statue. Only then did she realise how tall he was.

— "Come. Maybe your grandmother will look upon you from the heavens."

Frances stood, uneasy. Her eyes darted to the exit unconsciously, but father Tristan watched her intently, his face carved in stone. Daring her to fall back. Yet, his gaze was soft.

— "You have chosen Mary, after all, to light the candle."

Touché. Shrugging, Frances took a step forward, facing the plain marble carving who represented the Virgin Mary.

— "She is the mother…"

— "Of Jesus. This I know"

— "Good. She is also mother to us all, and knows the pain of losing our loved ones. Her heart is full of compassion."

Frances could only nod, wondering if she'd ever tell to her parents that she had prayed to a marble statue. Father Tristan stood by her side, his face now entirely dedicated to the icon. His high cheekbones stood out, his features seemingly carved in stone.

— "Repeat after me," he said.

Then he paused.

— "English or Latin?"

His tone was so casual, as if he'd asked whether she preferred vanilla or chocolate. Obviously, the man spoke Latin. Well … it would certainly feel more authentic in the original version, even though her knowledge of this ancient language was just acceptable. But Frances loved her movies in original version – to keep its soul – and would rather miss the meaning rather than break it altogether.

— "Latin, please"

If Father Tristan was surprised by her response, he did not show it, already lost in the trance that had engulfed him, he started the prayer in smooth tones. And Frances did repeat, one word after the other.

_"__Ave Maria, _

_Gratia plena, _

_Dominus tecum."_

_His voice detached every word, music to her ears._

_"__Benedicta tu in mulieribus,_  
_et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus."_

_And as the words passed her lips, her body started to warm up, her fingers tingling with an odd sensation of plenitude. As if something was filling her up, coming from the top of her head and descending into her body like a wave. _

_"__Sancta Maria, _

_Mater Dei,__  
__ora pro nobis peccatoribus,__  
__nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."_

_Frances shuddered then, and a warm blanket came to rest upon her shoulders, as if someone was hugging her … almost like an embrace. Emotions repressed surfaced, and tears slid down her cheeks anew. Unbidden, unstoppable, bleeding from a block oppressing her chest; the weight of many sorrows. She could not finish the prayer, struggling to keep her façade as father Tristan's smooth voice said the words. The lump in her throat was so big, her breath hitching, her chest painfully constricting from too much energy, too much love. _

_When he turned to her, she knew what he expected. His eyes were curious and worried at the same time, his face almost elated. But Frances was barely breathing._

_— __"__Amen" she whispered, her voice mingling with his own._

_The young woman staggered back, her legs hitting the bench. His long hands extended by reflex but she shied away, regaining her balance fast enough to snatch her handbag._

— "Thank you, father Tristan," she whispered unevenly.

Then she fled.

— "You are welcome, little one," he whispered back, stunned by the strength of her reaction.

As she walked … no, almost ran to the exit, father Tristan frowned. Her little hand was clutching his handkerchief. At least, she would have this little piece of cloth to remind her that spirituality was not to be ignored. A chance it was his best one, and not one of the horrible tissues with tartans of greys and reds. He needed to accept to let her go, just like the faithful that sometimes came and went on with their lives.

Yet, this uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him this experience was going to have a huge impact on his life. He needed to seek guidance and pray.

The second time Frances set foot in the church, Father Tristan was nowhere to be seen. It didn't matter, for she was only there to pass a message to her grandmother. Lighting up a candle, she took the time to remember fondly the moments they had shared together. And despite the tears still spilling from her eyes, she didn't feel sad when she left. Her heart, strangely, felt full of her grandmother's memories.

And so, whenever she went into town, Frances also took a moment to look at the façade of the church she had ignored for years. Sometimes, she stepped in, and sat on the bench in front of Marie. Other times, she just sent a thought to her grandma, and wished her well up there. Today, roughly two months and a half after first passing the threshold, her feet didn't ask her if she was willing to spend some time inside the now familiar house of God. They just walked in.

Frances was greeted by a deep voice that echoed inside the empty church, sending strange echoes into her heart. Frowning, the young woman stopped in her tracks before she could overcome the stoup. She wasn't a religious woman, and despite everything she had read recently, still disliked what the catholic church and the Popes had rained upon Europe and its people in the past. Yet… those voices, raining from the loudspeakers fixed on the pillars touched her.

Something stirred within her soul. The strange smell of hot, scorching air laden with dirt seemed to surround her. The smell of a desertic place, barely keeping the sand at bay as it tried to survive. The voices filled the transept, lonely, yet attuned to each other, creating a litany that didn't reach the point of a melody. Not a song… a lament. A lament for people who would, as soon as they passed the doors, get lost in the immensity of the desert that hosted Jerusalem.

Frances blinked, shaking out of her reverie. As usual, the church was nearly deserted except for a few faithful praying in the chapels. But in the midst of the dancing voices, Father Tristan stood tall before the altar. His back was to her, his hands clasped behind him, perfectly motionless. Despite the eeriness of the moment and his imposing presence, the young woman cracked; she'd seen Equilibrium this week end – her boyfriend enjoyed movies - and the sheer posture of the man reminded her of the ecclesiast. Stifling her laugh, the young woman watched in horror as the man turned around. She found herself once more rooted to the spot under the intensity if his penetrating gaze, but managed a weak smile. The faint rise of his eyebrows told her he recognized her, and when he started walking down the aisle, she wondered if it was too late to hide.

The movie came back to her full force as she watched his purposeful strides, the cassock nearly flying around his ankles. She'd never seen a man of the cloth move with such energy, and the smile returned as she averted her eyes. Truth be told, father Tristan had nothing to envy to Christian Bale. And there were so many buttons on this frock, a crossover between Severus Snape's attire and the Equilibrium look. This time, Frances had to bite her lip. Unfortunately, father Tristan caught on her mirth and didn't give her time to hide it.

— "Good afternoon, Frances. I am glad to see such an expression on your face, what brough that smile about ?"

Blushing furiously, the young woman was so embarrassed that she didn't even remark that father Tristan have remembered her name. Unable to form a lie, she gave him a sly look before blurting out.

— "You made me think of Christian Bale in Equilibrium. Do you practice martial arts ?"

Was it the comparison or the question that took him off guard, but for a moment, his careful poise seemed shaken. Then his composure returned, his shoulder settling comfortably in a non-threatening posture.

— "As a matter of fact, I do", he retorted with a sly smile.

Frances' chocolate eyes opened wide, betraying her surprise.

— "You do ?"

— "Yes. Tai-chi. I teach to the youngsters of the foyer down the street, it helps them focus"

Frances cocked her head aside; she knew Aikido, but not Tai-Chi. Chinese to Japanese, what would be the difference ? Before she could ask, though, father Tristan wanted to know more about this Christian Bale's comparison.

— "But come, you must tell me about this movie"

Relieved that he didn't take offense about her laughter, Frances followed him to the Marie bench, as she had dubbed it. Funny, how he seemed to remember everything of their previous encounter.

— "Are you interested in movies, father Tristan ?"

— "Yes, I am."

The conversation was hushed, and Frances couldn't help but remark how he was a man of few words. Would it be off limits to ask her boyfriend for the file of Equilibrium ? Thinking of it, it probably still lingered on her desktop; she had not taken the time to clean it yet.

— "It doesn't play in theatres anymore. But if you own a computer, I can probably get it for you on a USB device"

There was no need to talk about illegal downloading, right ? How attuned to the outside world a man of the cloth could be ? Where did he live ? What people did he meet ? What were his hobbies ? Suddenly, Frances realized that she was neck down into preconceptions; nowadays, priests didn't live like monks of old, hidden in a monastery.

Father Tristan nodded to her.

— "It would be enjoyable. But I don't want to impose"

— "Oh, it won't be a problem. I'll bring it about the next time I pass through here."

The priest gave her a discreet smile before silence settled, the voices of the lament capturing much of Frances' attention as they drifted in the quiet church, echoing along the walls. Her gaze roamed over the soft stones of the building, marvelling that, hundred of years before her time, the faithful had put so much effort and skill into shaping such a magnificent piece of work. To lift stones that weighed several tons, and position them accurately without the help of modern techniques. Even in a simple, small church like this one, pillars were carved, and the acoustics was such that the voices seemed to respond to each other. Who would do such a thing except for people that genuinely believed in the mightiness of God ?

On a whim, Frances turned to the silent figure beside her.

— "Can you tell me about what you believe in ?"

The priest addressed her a speculative look, gentle, yet wary. In the dim light of the church, she couldn't determine whether his eyes were brown or grey.

— "What would you like to know ?"

Puzzled, Frances bit her lip under the intensity of his gaze. That man had such presence that it sent her mind into turmoil. A last, she sheepishly admitted that she had no idea.

— "I don't know. I just wanted someone to tell me what faith is, because obviously people have slaved over this church, so they must have believed strongly"

Father Tristan's eyes roamed over the stones and halls, displaying his high cheekbones as his mind followed her reasoning. The moment his lips parted, he enchanted her with the story of God and religion, of faith and the intimate knowledge that, somewhere, up there, someone was watching over them. Call them angels, or God, guardians or guides, Marie, Jesus, Petrus or St Jean. And while his smooth voice led her to paths she had never considered – or mocked beforehand – Frances chose, this time, not to close her mind. She tried to bite her snarky comments about the bitterness of religion, relishing instead in the awed look that sometimes overcame father Tristan's features as he turned to the altar. To the light. Telling her that God had designs for all of them, greater than theirs, and that every trial that came our way had a purpose to cause them to grow.

To this, Frances eventually bristled, the intensity of her young years refusing to accept such a thing.

— "You mean to say that children dying of hunger, people being killed in wars, tortured, car accidents, babies loosing their parents are God's will ? How could he design such suffering ?"

Her indignation didn't rattle father Tristan and she observed as he seemed to gather his thoughts to answer truthfully. It probably wasn't the first time people expressed their doubts, and she felt bad for pushing so violently. Was she being disrespectful ?

— "I understand how such violence could turn someone away from God. Deep down, I just know that I am not privy to the heavens's plans for humanity, and unable to understand the full design. What if those deaths were necessary for people to understand the value of life ? What if humans only thrived to the light in darkness ?"

Puzzled, Frances cocked her head aside, willing her indignation to abate and her heart rate to even out. If she wanted to have an adult's discussion, perhaps it was time to try a change of point of view.

— "You mean, like a contrast ?"

Father Tristan squinted his eyes slightly, showing that he was reflecting on her analysis. She liked the way he took his time before answering, as if the now and then was the only thing on his mind. Or perhaps he was only giving her his full attention, as he would for every other parishioner coming his way. In any case, that strange slowness seemed to drape her shoulders in comfort, allowing Frances' full attention to delve on the theology debate. So when at last, her neighbour's smooth voice graced her ears again, Frances almost started.

— "Perhaps, yes. People have such potential for selfishness, just as much as for solidarity. But it expresses in difference circumstances"

Drawn into the debate again – her brain kickstarting full force - she lifted an ironic eyebrow.

— "I see your point. In hostile environment, the sense of community is mandatory. But that would mean that humans should be pressed in horrible places in order to show their better side ? That gives little faith into humanity"

Frances almost cringed; she was playing devil's advocate; she was the first to claim how little she believed in humanity. This world was crazy, lead by greedy men that didn't give a damn about others. But father Tristan didn't react to her rightful indignation, responding to hostility with a shrug.

— "Perhaps not. As I said before, I try to do my part, and leave the rest to God"

Did this man ever lose his temper ? Somehow, she didn't want to know… yet she couldn't prevent herself from digging a little further. It was the first time she faced a true believer that didn't shoot her arguments with a flick of his hand, and he knew what he was talking about. That man had studied religion after all.

— "Some things are just so inconsistent in religion…"

Amber eyes turned to her, honestly interested.

— "Such as ?"

Frances bit her lip, suddenly very aware that every single misgiving she had about religion was going to tumble from her lips. The gates were open, and she hope the priest would be able to contain its flow.

— "The inquisition ? Crusades. Heretics ? Burning witches that were in fact healers ? Accepting to kill a pregnant woman if she's less than three months along, when fundamentalists yell at doctors that accept abortion."

Eyes blazing, Frances realized that her chest was getting tight yet she continued.

— "Burning the Cathares because they believed differently… There's just so much there we should be ashamed of, so many horrors done in the name of religion"

Father Tristan accepted her anger, choosing to pin her with his intense gaze rather than avoid it. To acknowledge it rather than flee. And once he was sure she was finished, he kept his eyes strained upon her face. Frances took a deep breath in hopes of chasing away the strange weight that had settled on her chest, signaling that she was finally done with her rant. She was now fully available to hear the priest's answer, and hope she had not ruffled his feathers too strongly. The man, though, seemed perfectly calm as he responded:

— "There had been shameful things done in the name of religion. Times when Jesus's teachings were forgotten. My opinion is that people who choose to hurt others, no matter how, no matter in whose name, have lost their way."

Well. That was new. Mulling over his words - not truly an apology of his own organization, but close enough – Frances' eyebrows rose high upon her forehead as the priest's gaze turned to Marie.

— "I can't atone for this, but I do my best to welcome and care for believers."

— "I don't think there's much else that can be done anyway", Frances grumbled.

Her fake ill-humor called a very tiny smile to his lips, and she was surprised by the gleam in his eyes when he turned back to her.

— "And what do you believe in, Frances ?"

What did she believe in, truly ? Not in geology, physics and maths, that was for sure. Not in the so called elite of this world, for she now knew how twisted those were. Neither in the goodwill of politics and school teachers, nor in the profit they kept on trying to instill. No. After all those years of hard work to become an engineer, she realized that she didn't believe in high education anymore. True, it gave her the means to understand and analyze the worlds better than others… but it also showed her how cold and calculating those intelligent people were.

Where had humanity gone ? Was it empathy, or sympathy that she missed the most in this God forsaken shool ? Or truthfulness, maybe. Honour, perhaps. All those things long gone when money had seized the world, and the need to thrive and show your worth to the world replaced gentleness. So it wasn't too difficult, in the end, to respond father Tristan.

— "I believe in empathy, goodness of intentions. Of doing our best no matter the circumstances. I believe in wisdom, and taking care of those who are close to us."

The priest gave her a discreet smile, the slight change of expression brightening his face.

— "Then we are not so different. Most of those are principles are the core of Christianity."

Puzzled, Frances could only relent. He had her there.

— "You won this round, father Tristan", she breathed out.

The man only nodded.

— "It never is a matter of winning, but sharing. I am glad your questions were answered"

This evening, she left the church with the certitude that maybe, she wasn't such an atheist after all.

**_I advise, as you read this, to listen to Clamavi de Profundis Lamentations of Jeremiah, 1:10-14._**


	24. Chapter 24 - God Part II

The days were still bright and the heat rather scorching in those first days of September. Yet, the heavy stones of his church always provided freshness when the outside world burnt. His chambers, though, didn't benefit from the temperate climate. Needless to say that Tristan had not slept soundly for the past two months. That blasted heatwave, in July, had even sent him sprawling on the tiles of the corridor in hopes of cooling his skin. The two weeks break had brought a little respite – retreating to the countryside to spend some time with cousins and his father, Tristan had taken advantage of the luxuriant nature to breathe some fresh air. But despite his attachment to his backcountry, he noticed, year after year, the gap that now resided between himself and his family.

The youngest cousins got lost in the excesses of youth, drinking, playing, partying until late when he was an early riser. Every day, Tristan had left at dawn to walk the paths of his childhood, returning for breakfast around 9 only to find himself facing his father and his sister whose kids always woke up early. Debates, politics, economics were set aside in favour of sour jokes and references to movies and talks he knew nothing about, concerns he couldn't understand. Most of them were foreign to him, not because he didn't grasp the necessity to save money for school, or choose between a gray pant or a blue one on sale, but rather because he didn't place much importance in such things.

He had watched 'Equilibrium'. Twice. Once with his cousins who found the movie 'sofuckingsupercool', and once when he got back in the quiet of his rooms. He even spotted a little inconsistency in the scenario; he would have to discuss it with Frances… if she ever came back to his church. Would she ? The young woman had promised to catch up upon her return, but Tristan couldn't help but doubt. The youth, now, seemed rather fickle. Perhaps she would go on with her life.

Tristan had told no one about the young woman who had barely left his thoughts this summer. How could such a fleeting acquaintance held such sway over his thoughts ? What would she think of this ? He wondered, each time he contemplated a view. Would she reprove, or turn a blind eye to the marihuana passed around the fire amongst the youth at night ? What was she doing, in the very same moment when he sat on a boulder and watched the mightiness of God's work ? Was she the kind of woman to get drunk on a beach ?

Tristan did not move an inch when a lone figure came to stand by his side, watching the altar without saying a word. He should have remarked that, now, he knew her gait well enough to recognize her steps on the polished stones. He had, after all, always been an observant man. And while his heart danced in giddiness to realise that she kept her promise – yes, Frances was a reliable woman – Tristan barely allowed his lips to form a fond smile. In truth, he had missed her. It took a few seconds for him to school his features well enough to turn to her.

She looked… incredibly good. Her sunkissed skin showed more freckles than usual, and the tan gave her a glow than swallowed the dark circles she had sported before her vacation. Time away had done wonders for her inner peace; she seemed much healthier.

— "Welcome back, Frances."

The young woman fixed her warm chocolate eyes upon him before giving him a slight bow. A gesture a noble lady might have done centuries before their time.

— "Good afternoon, father Tristan."

She did not speak until he led her to 'their' bench, fearful of disturbing the few people praying in the aisles; Tristan was grateful for her consideration. But again, he had never found her wanting in this domain, and this was the reason why he kept this acquaintance going. And took the time to answer her questions. Truthfully, Frances was a breath of fresh air into his life. And so, knowing how awkward she always felt when he granted her some time, father Tristan was the one to offer an aperture.

— "I am glad to see you, Frances. Perhaps you have found new subjects for us to discuss while you were away."

The young woman gave him a cheeky grin and he knew he had broken the ice successfully.

— "Really, are you not getting bored of being questioned at every turn ?"

There. One minute back, and she was already pushing him in a corner. It wasn't difficult to respond with good grace, but he kept silent the fact that, sometime, she really shook his beliefs to the core. Under her gentle pressure, his faith stumbled sometimes, the fundations reworked. Yet, in the end, he only grew stronger in his belief that God was testing him. Hence the smooth reply.

— "I am glad for the challenge. Who else to cause me to open theology books I had abandoned for years ?"

The young woman gave him a searching look, skepticism shining in her eyes. Was she doubting him ? Or her welcome in this church ? When her eyes returned to the statue of Marie, Tristan exhaled slowly. Would he ever know the tempest that always waged inside this lovely skull ?

— "How was your summer ?", she eventually asked.

His summary of country hikes and debauched cousins caused her lips to quirk up and her eyes to sparkle. Her frowns and huffs at hearing about the soft drugs they partook in taught Tristan everything he needed to know; Frances didn't indulge in such things. And when he started describing the countryside behind his father's house, her gaze became unfocused as she tried to picture it.

— "So this is it. Nothing too exotic, as you can see, for we cannot afford to loose sight of our calling"

The young woman nodded, cocking her head aside as was her wont whenever she was deep in thought. Tristan didn't give her time to ask for more as he prompted her to reciprocate.

— "How did your vacation go ?"

Her eyebrows scrunched up slightly as she wondered where to start; nine weeks were quite a long time after all. And if he recalled properly, she tended to travel with her family; she had told him much of Mexico where her brother resided. A little pink tongue darted over plump lips before Frances' soft voice rose in the silence.

— "I took an internship in a lab, in Chambéry… It was great"

And Frances endeavored to describe the beauty of the alps where her tutor had dragged her to dig and survey peatlands, and the perks of working in a nuclear lab when they took her below the Fréjus tunnel.

— "It's right in the middle of the tunnel, there's a concrete door and they stop the traffic between France and Italy so that you can cross the road by foot. It's just surrealist. And they work here, in this great cave under kilometers of mountain rock just to avoid interference. Like a set of dwarves"

Her eyes sparkled at the recollection of this hidden laboratory; to think she had crossed this tunnel a dozen times and never knew it was there ! Her geekiness expressed in her hands gestures and chirpy tone as she told him about neutrinos, and nuclear elements, and the pollution left by the romans as they grilled ore from the Alps to extract silver. And the spike of Cesium in peat cores that allowed to date Chernobyl's catastrophe. Tristan was in no way a dumb man, but when she rambled like this, he felt humbled by her brain capacity. No matter how she tried to hide it, Frances was too clever for her own good. When thrown off guard by a new concept, he found that she returned a week later with her own version of said idea. Internalized, digested, and assimilated.

The questions of nuclear isotopes were left aside for a fond recollection of her time spend with her family in Switzerland. Frances loved hiking just as much as she loved bathing. The mood shifted gradually, with Tristan absorbing information and leading her with simple, quiet questions until he eventually found the source of her uneasiness. Namely, her boyfriend's behavior. She mentioned him, from time to time, whenever her deigned visiting her. Most of the time, she was the one who took the train – 3 hours or so – to see him on weekends.

— "So you left with him ?"

The pause told him he had breached a sensitive subject.

— "Yeah, Wednesday. I cried so much on the way that he had to take me back, and we stayed a night more with my parents. Like when I was little. I just wanted to stay in the mountains so badly, and spend time with them… anyway"

Shameful. Embarrassment oozed from her in waves, as if her emotional outburst called for contempt. Her hands were tightly woven together, her back too straight to be comfortable.

— "So you spend one more day with your family?", he asked.

— "Yeah. We hiked up, then met to have a fondue with a view over the Mont Blanc. It was amazing, truly. My boyfriend wanted to get back then, so we drove home on Thursday evening."

Frances was silent again, her knuckles white over the long skirt she wore. For a moment, the priest wondered if she only dressed like this to get in the church, out of respect ? For it was still 35 degrees outside. The prolonged pause caused him to ponder; something didn't add up here. Frances had probably fought with her boyfriend over the week end.

— "So you had the week end for yourselves ?", he prodded gently.

Her wide chocolate eyes turned to him, and Tristan's heart lurched. Her gaze was sad, devoid of the light he so enjoyed in her usually sparkling orbs. Filled with rejection, and incomprehension. Begging him to tell her …

— "No. He left me there, stating he needed some time for himself"

Tristan frowned then; had he missed something in her recollection ?

— "I am not sure I understand."

Frances lifted her chin, her cheeks ablaze with repressed anger this time as she struggled to keep her voice low.

— "You're not the only one ! I didn't either. I thought we would spend the week end together. Instead… he took me away from my family, only to drop me in an empty home and leave me there. I was so angry…"

Her pants suddenly caught in her throat, and she resumed her previous position, eyes set upon the statue before them.

— "Sorry, father Tristan, I shouldn't burden you with…"

The priest's fingers tickled, urging him to cover her hand with his to calm her down. But he would never touch her. Distance was key in his line of work. Neither too close, nor too far from his parishioners.

— "Nonsense. I was the one who asked. I see that his behavior hurt you greatly"

The knowledge that priests sometimes replaced psychologists had landed on his lap pretty early when he took over the church. People talked to him as they would use a professional. Understanding the need of a sympathetic ear, Tristan had read a few books to practice active listening. Today, Frances needed him to understand her relationship. Stating the plain truth – her heartache – allowed her to verbalise the issue.

— "If he had warned me… I would have stayed with my family. I even considered taking a train back to Switzerland, but I would have arrived on Friday and they were leaving the rental on Saturday. Plain stupid. I got to spend some time with my brother that lives on the other side of the world, but no… I had to throw it away for a man who didn't want to spend time with me in the first place"

Tristan nodded twice, his intense gaze resting on the distraught woman by his side. Why did his chest tighten when he saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears ?

— "That young man had some progress to do when it comes to communication"

Frances snorted then, an unladylike, angry sound.

— "He's not that young, you know"

He knew Frances to be twenty-two years old; she had told him herself. How old could her boyfriend possibly be ?

— "Humor me", he whispered, his gaze fixed upon the virgin Marie.

Frances' cocked her head aside, as if to tell him a secret.

— "He was born in 1977"

Tristan internally started, struggling to keep his composure. He, who was born but two years prior, felt so much older than the man she described. He felt positively outraged on behalf of Frances, and reined his anger quickly; it was not his place to judge.

— "Have you been able to discuss it with him ?"

— "I tried. He talked, and talked, as he tends to do, and in the end I didn't know north from south anymore. I felt like a whining little girl that had no right to be angry"

The priest frowned then, gazing as Marie's statue in hopes Jesus's mother would give him a hint. Somehow, he wondered of Frances wasn't dealing with a manipulator. Isolating her from her family only to leave her on the sidelines… With her earnest nature and will to believe the best of everyone, she could be an easy prey for such a man.

— "You need to trust yourself, Frances. What doesn't feel right to you isn't right, no matter how well explained they seem"

Her chestnut eyebrows scrunched together in an adorable expression.

— "But people always have different points of view, right ? When you listen to a wife rambling about her husband, and the husband rambling about the same wife, you can judge the two of them separately, only to realise you never had the full picture in the end"

There she was; she woman that always wanted to do the right thing, and refrain from judging without knowing all the facts. The truth was that she analysed people's behavior like a math problem, but humans were much less logical than that. Emotions, for one, weren't reined by any kind of sense. They reflected past hurts, and hopes, sometime entirely decorrelated from the initial situation.

— "That would be correct. But you must trust in your heart… On judgment day, we trust Jesus to judge with his heart, and not with his head."

— "Yeah. Good luck to him"

The priest shook his head, amazed that she always managed to treat sacred figures with such casualness. It wasn't disrespectful, per se, but she crushed the distance between sanctity and humanity too easily for his own comfort. A result of her anticlerical education.

— "Sarcasm will lead you nowhere, young lady", he told her sternly.

Chastised, Frances let her eyes fall in her lap.

— "I know. It just keeps my wit sharp."

Her tone was clipped, defensive.

— "And I fear I have taken much of your time", she added, smoothing her skirt.

She had taken the amused rebuttal much too harshly and Tristan could only watch as she retreated in the recesses of her mind; she had spoken of her rejection, laying the wound at his feet, and his only response was to tell her down. He would have bashed in own head on the cobblestones, and rushed to soften the blow.

— "Not at all. It is always my pleasure"

She dismissed his attempt instantly.

— "Yeah. I have plenty of things to settle before class tomorrow, so I wish you a nice evening, father Tristan"

— "You are most welcome here, thank you for stopping by."

The young woman gave him a tight smile as she rose, one that didn't reach her eyes. Tristan followed her to the aisle.

— "Goodbye", she breathed.

And she meant it so strongly that the priest's breath caught.

— "God bless you, Frances"

The red braid danced away as she left the church, and Tristan couldn't help but feel bereft. There was a strange pit in his stomach, a pang of regret as he let her go. Her emotions had shifted so swiftly, grabbing on a very subtle hint not to make fun of his sacred figures to feed her shame and sense of worthlessness. How had he managed to hurt her with such a little retort ? He knew Frances to be a sensitive woman, but she couldn't possibly survive life, her teachers, and the rest of the world if she handled animosity this way… or perhaps, she wasn't only so open with the others. Perhaps the blow had been harsh because his opinion meant a lot to her, because she had lowered her shields around him.

That idea send Tristan's mind into a turmoil.

If she ever came back again, he would have to prod if her boyfriend wasn't dangerous to her. A manipulator. The worst kind, especially since, most of the time, they didn't even do it consciously.

Two weeks later…

She came back, popping at an unusual time without quite looking for him. He watched her from afar as she left a coin in the little box and alighted a candle. The flickering light illuminated her lovely features, bringing the fire out of her reddish hair. For a while, she just sat there, and he wondered if she was waiting for him, or if he should keep away. Usually, she swept the church in search of him rather than stubbornly sit.

Leaving the decision to her – especially today – father Tristan busied himself at setting back the decoration on the altar after his morning sermon. As of yet, Frances had never assisted to mass. Given her atheism, it wasn't so strange. The young woman eventually came to a decision, and circled the area where a few people prayed to come and greet him. Father Tristan bit his lip; how was she going to react ?

— "Good morning, father Tristan"

Too late to hide now. The priest turned around to face her, and the young woman inhaled sharply. Her wide eyes stared at him, a worried frown scrunching her eyebrows as she lifted her hand… and retracted it at once.

— "My goodness, what happened to you ?", she asked, appalled.

Father Tristan was grateful that the 'incident', had happened five days prior, for the swelling had greatly diminished. Given her state of flustering, she might have had a mighty fit. Still, his bandaged nose had gathered some pretty concerned look all morning.

— "Erm. An altercation at the youth house. Nothing to worry about"

— "Is it broken ?"

There was a slight pause, and Frances' eyes narrowed at him. Daring him to lie or disminish the wound. Right now, she seemed ready to bite someone's head off and he marvelled at the gleam of wrath hidden behind her warm irises. Better to soothe her now.

— "Just a little. But it's all right now."

— "Are you sure ?"

Father Tristan shrugged; the pain was but a dull ache now.

— "Yes. I've been through the predicament before, it will be fine in a few weeks. There's no need to fret"

An incredulous expression fleeted over her face, and she lifted a playful eyebrow.

— "Well, if that's a habit then it's fine, right ?"

Ah, sarcasm. Most refreshing. A smile tugged at his lips, and the priest fought to keep it from pulling at the broken appendage.

— "So what happened, really ?", she asked more gently.

— "There seem to be a gang waiting for some of my protégés after the Tai-Chi class. My pleas for peace remained unheard, hence the scuffle."

The look in her face grew more assertive, the 'brace for impact' moment left behind as she eyed him suspiciously.

— "Any damage other than your nose ?"

Tristan pursed his lips.

— "The kids are mainly fine."

The young woman nodded in acknowledgment. Had she noticed how deviously he had deviated the question from himself ?

— "Good. How about you ?"

Of course… she had noticed ! Tristan refrained from smiling as he responded to her obvious worry.

— "A few bruises, and the collar of my frock. I could sew the buttons again, and have to find a way to mend the tear."

Frances' features relaxed then, satisfied with her questioning.

— "I could have a look. Sewing is one of my favourite past time"

Taken aback, the priest considered the young woman with a new look.

— "Is it ?"

— "Yeah. That skirt is one of my creations, see ?"

And while Tristan took a good look at the stylish garment – a mid-calf skirt with adornments - he missed how her cheeks reddened. Truth be told, he would never have guessed she wore her own creation, for the craftsmanship seemed flawless. What kind of woman, today, took the time to sew her own clothing ? It was positively ancient.

— "You seem to master your art rather well, where did you learn ?"

She gave a nervous chuckle.

— "Oh, no. No mastering there. I'm self-taught so I mess up sometimes. But with sewing, there's always a way to patch it."

Her humility stroke a chord in the priest, and he attempted, awkwardly, to mend for past hurts and give the praise she deserved.

— "This skirt is flawless"

Frances' cheeks were ablaze, now, and she dropped her head, watching her feet.

— "It isn't, but you'd need to see the inside to spot it so… I learn by making mistakes"

Tristan smiled, turning to the light that flooded the alter on this fair Sunday morning.

— "This is the way of the world. Mistakes brings experience"

Frances followed his line of sight, contemplating how the colored glass created shadows and bright spots on the plain stone walls. They both remained silent for a while, she mulling about mistakes and experience, and he replaying the violent events of the previous week. He had been a tad too slow, but the few punches he had landed would ensure the makeshift gang wouldn't retaliate. Children, all of them… playing the big shots without the heart and harshness to plainly embrace illegality. His Tai-Chi students now knew he would protect them. Still… was the violence needed ?

— "Do you wish me to leave, father Tristan ?"

Her soft voice startled him, causing his faint eyebrows to rise high upon his forehead.

— "Why would you think that, Frances?", was his smooth reply.

— "You seemed lost in thought"

— "Ah, yes. This altercation, on Monday, threw me into many ethical considerations"

The young woman accepted his olive branch eagerly, begging for more of his inner musings.

— "And what is your conclusion ?"

Should he bare his doubts to her ? She was so easy to talk to, this young woman, that he wondered how far he should go. Yet, her warm chocolate eyes were expectant and Tristan relented.

— "That somehow, I couldn't find the way to turn the other cheek"

— "You offered your nose, isn't that enough ?"

— "Perhaps it was"

Silence settled again, heavy with meaning, doubts and tergiversations. Until the young woman took a step closer to him, and searched for his gaze.

— "My father told me once that he used to play rugby with a priest. When they asked him if he should turn the other cheek on the playing field, he simply answered that there was more pleasure in giving than receiving"

A small laugh bubbled in the priest' chest and he allowed the joke to wash his worries away. Yes. Perhaps he ought to let it go and accept that he had done his best. Seeing that she had lifted the mood effectively, Frances tackled the next subject.

— "So do you want me to have a look at your frock ? I can't fix your nose, but I can work with cloth"

— "I wouldn't want to impose", came the automatic response.

Frances' eyes didn't leave him, her voice carrying more conviction.

— "You won't. I sew when I need to take breaks from my studies. It allows me to think, and rest my brain"

— "If you are sure", he bowed.

— "I am. I can't guarantee I will manage, but if I can do it, I will"

She left with his torn frock, and Tristan wondered if he should have refused. Many a night, he guessed at what her family and friends would say is they saw her working on a churchman's suit. Little did he know that Frances didn't allow many people to penetrate her lair. No one would ever know she'd pricked her fingers sewing shut that stupid tear with a thousand of little crosses.

She returned the frock a week afterwards, thoroughly mended and reinforced with another set of self-sticking cloth on the inside. As they settled on Marie's bench, the student showed him the repairs and instructed him on the washing habits.

— "You can machine wash it, but avoid any tumble dry because it might take the iron-on fabric would go away"

Tristan turned the cloth inside out, watching as the neat stitches disappeared in the cloth, making a faint scar that could only be seen from up close.

— "This is remarkable", he said. "I can even wear it for mass and none would be the wiser"

As usual, Frances couldn't take the compliment, turning to self-derision instead.

— "If I knew how to cook, It'd be a marriageable woman, right ?"

Somehow, the idea of seeing Frances married didn't sit well with him. Tristan refrained from scrunching his nose, choosing the diplomatic approach instead.

— "Ah, you might be a little young for that"

The young woman left the frock in his hands, giving him a small, tender smile.

— "Yeah, times have changed. I'm glad I got this freedom, and the choice to have a career before I am tied down."

Tied down. Her view on marriage seemed rather disparaging, yet her tone wasn't pissed or clipped. Curious, Tristan asked her:

— "You do not seem to inclined towards marriage. Is it the religious meaning, or the engagement ?"

— "Oh no. I do not fear the commitment, really. I am pretty conservative compared to my friends… see, my skirts never lift above a knee. But I think that having children has even more impact."

The priest couldn't possibly argue with it, albeit religious marriage also was a contract with the heavens. Still… there was no stronger commitment than another soul.

— "Yes. Children ties people with a life"

— "My thoughts exactly. But I would love to get married in the future. I just have too many things on my plate at the moment to think about it. All in good time"

The future. Her future. Someday, Frances would walk away from here and have a brilliant career. She would become a fond memory of his past, with her incessant questionings and lovely smile. For once, Tristan didn't feel like playing the part of priest, and choose personal ground instead. He didn't want to talk about her future prospects in any company, nor her marriage to the current boyfriend. Instead, he wanted to know about her.

— "Mmm. So no cooking ?"

If she was surprised by the U-turn of this conversation, the young woman didn't show it. Instead, conversation just changed direction without the flow being disturbed. He couldn't help but marvel how easy it was to exchange with her, she adapted at every turn, like a fish with shiny scales that never allowed to be caught.

— "Just a bit. I don't have much time in between classes, and my workload. Do you cook, father Tristan ?"

The frock was heavy in his hand, and his fingers played with the heavy cloth.

— "I do, I love eating."

— "Isn't that a capital sin ?"

There, she'd nailed him again. Cheeky woman. The twinkle in his eyes intensified as he responded, a smile tugging at his lips.

— "Greediness is. But to appreciate food as a present from God isn't."

The young woman mirrored his expression, and in the dim light of the church he found her features so entrancing. Was she even aware of the light she radiated ? Of the fondess that shone in her gaze ? Of the warmth it called in his belly to have such a gentle expression directed to him ? The man soared here, leaving the priest behind for a few precious seconds.

— "Sugar, or salty ?", she whispered.

— "I do have a sweet tooth."

Tristan's admission caused her smile to widen knowingly.

— "Chocolate ?"

— "Heavenly"

And he remarked as she failed at pointing that, now, he was the one joking about religious notions.


	25. Chapter 25 - God Part III

_**I advise you to listen to the Tenebrae Choir, their miserere illustrates what it means to be an amazing soprano in a group that thrives for harmony.**_

_****_Hey, funny this one. I'm exploring faith, I guess. And it's an interesting journey._****_

The music washed over her like a soothing calm, healing her soul to the very core. Too bad the benevolent vibrations couldn't heal her muscles as well. Frances was still stiff, her calves so tender that she could barely move them around. The flu had caught her right after a brutal session of exercise, the soreness caused by the virus catalysed by the already aching muscles. Never before had she limped – positively LIMPED! – from the flu. But there she was, sitting on a normally comfortable chair, feeling like she'd been run over by a truck. And to think it was the fourth day… Damn. The flu had got her rather viciously this time.

Still, she couldn't have missed this concert for the world. In the mighty cathedral, the voices rose and fell like an autumn wind, the ballet of intertwined chorists more beautiful than the dancing leaves outside. It only added to the intrinsic beauty of the building, pulling Frances far, far away from her everyday concerns. It could have been angels, singing and laughing over her shoulder; their voices wrapped her in a blanket of benevolence. It didn't matter that she attended alone – it was but half an hour drive from her place – nor that father Tristan, who had told her he was here, was nowhere in sight. It didn't matter than she'd been sick like a dog, or that she would have to slave to catch up on the classes she missed. Neither the ugliness of the world, nor its stench of money reached her within the walls of the cathedrals, for Angels were protecting it.

Their plea vibrated in her body; Frances closed her eyes. She felt like she was bathed in light, caressed by higher beings. Hope bloomed in her chest, hope that perhaps, she could find her place in the world. So beautiful, so soft, so caressing. And when the lead soprano performed one last Ave Maria, her tone so pure, tears leaked from Frances' eyes. She didn't even try to hide them; she wasn't the only one moved by the purity of that woman's voice. A stunned silence followed this last piece before thunderous applause exploded.

Frances followed the sea of people out of the church, her mind still blown away by the beauty of what she had witnessed. So it was without surprise that it took three times before she recognised the voice that was calling her name in the background. The young woman started, then frowned as she stiffly turned around. Father Tristan was a few feet away, his gaze boring holes into her. He jogged lightly to greet her, a gentle smile on his face.

— "Hello, Frances. I am glad you could attend, did you enjoy the performance?"

For a moment, the young woman's brain refused to function and she could only stare as the man's eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

— "Frances?"

— "Ah. Yes. Sorry. I'm still a little out of it. It was … magnificent. Thank you for the tip"

The priest considered her strangely, then nodded.

— "Yes. They tend to have this effect."

— "I wish I could sing like this. This Ave Maria … she gave me goosebumps."

A faint eyebrow rose upon his forehead, losing itself in the loose strands of his chestnut hair. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he responded.

— "Did you ever try?"

— "Uh"

She couldn't possibly respond yes or no, because she thoroughly enjoyed singing in the shower. Or without a shower. Her best vacation time used to be the days when she locked herself in the attic with her younger cousin, singing all the discs of their favourite artists. And truth be told, Frances knew that if she warmed up enough, she could sing rather nicely. But this … this was other worldly. And not only because of the chorist's technique, which had been flawless. The strength of their message, this hope she had felt could only come from the heart. Such a performance was out of reach… Wasn't it?

— "Maybe you should."

Frances swallowed, keeping her doubts in check. Yes, maybe she would give it a try. A large family – with running kids – suddenly popped up out of nowhere, and the young woman took a few steps back to give them more leeway. Her leg muscles protested so much that she stumbled with a wince. Father Tristan's eyes narrowed instantly.

— "Are you hurt?"

— "Ah, no, just a limp. It's nothing."

Frowning, the priest stared her down. With his six feet, he towered so easily over her that every attempt to flee would have been useless.

— "What happened?" he demanded.

In her hazed state, Frances only gathered that he seemed worried. Hence her blunt reply.

— "Oh. Just the flu. Don't fuss, it's much better than the first night, I couldn't even stand from my bed because my calves wouldn't work."

— "Couldn't you call someone?" father Tristan blurted out.

Frances frowned, taken aback by his frantic tone. Why the panic? She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

— "Why? I don't want my family to drive four hours just for the flu, it's not worth it."

— "Not worth it? Have you seen the state you are in?" he huffed.

Frances' eyebrows scrunched together; she knew to be pretty resilient, and didn't understand why the mess. But father Tristan was a friend, now, and it wouldn't do to dismiss him and make her escape. She was, in truth, rather used to her boyfriend being rather callous whenever she felt sick. Like that time she had to have surgery and he never came to visit. So father Tristan's wave of concern took her aback, and she scrambled her brain for her a moment to gather how to soothe the priest.

— "Listen. The fever is mostly down, and I'm just limping. I can get on with my life, cook, sleep, and move around. I even got to class the past days. Nothing to worry about, it will pass"

Father Tristan crossed his arms in an intimidating posture, his slender jaw set in a stern line, golden eyes narrowing. Damn, if the kids he had fought a few weeks back had faced such a man, it was little wonder they didn't come back.

— "How mostly?" he asked, his smooth voice laden with an edge.

Frances pursed her lips, trying to recall the last time she had controlled her temperature.

— "Uh. I don't keep count, I can function rather well with a fever and I'm careful to keep to myself. Which means I'm not contagious anymore."

— "You're still going to class? And limping like this?"

She could understand the incredulity; people usually didn't grasp the tremendous workload that her school set upon the student's shoulders. Any delay could become really problematic. Better to sit in the amphiteatrum, half dead than miss it altogether. Only Asian students would probably come close to her current predicament.

— "Yeah. I can't miss too much, I'd be too far behind so…"

— "Grit your teeth and get on with it?"

The young woman cringed; he seemed … almost angry. Dropping her eyes to the ground, she barely whispered.

— "Yeah."

Gone was the sense of hope and security of the choir. Now, cold reality replaced it with its ugly truth. Yes, her curriculum was crazy, and no one cared if students cracked under pressure. Two years prior, a friend of hers had attempted to commit suicide. Learning a 70-page fascicle by heart because the teacher wanted to ask about the figure 2.a from page 35 wasn't even strange … she was used to it, even if it made no sense. And it angered her that she and her classmates would be mistreated so easily without anyone battling an eyelash. But such were the rules if you wanted the diploma. And now that she was here … well, it was better to get it, right?

— "Somehow, you don't sell your school very nicely," Tristan said in a clipped tone.

Frances shrugged, trying to repress the shiver that his voice, usually so smooth, had caused to invade her spine.

— "It's crap, so I don't mind. I would never…"

A yawn interrupted her then.

— " … never recommend this school to anyone, believe me."

Father Tristan's eyes wouldn't leave her, and Frances felt pinned in place by his attention. People passed them, still talking about the concert, or planning for a drink, circling them as waves would flow around two rocks at sea. Frances nibbled her finger; she needed to find a way out, sleep was calling and her brain dying of exhaustion.

— "Well…", she started, only to be interrupted.

— "Are you driving in that state?"

Ah, so he was still mulling about that. Frances nearly rolled her eyes; how easily concerned turned to annoying sweetness. He couldn't possibly know that she was pretty resistant to fever in general. Send a stomach flu her way and she was toast, but her body could sustain very high temperatures without diminishing her too badly. A genetic present from her father, apparently.

— "Yes."

— "This is not very cautious, young lady."

The appellation caused her temper to flare; she would not be treated like a child!

— "Aha! Will you stop berating me?! I drove with 39.5 fever on Wednesday, so yes. I'm good."

Her exasperation caused father Tristan to bite his upper lip, his hands coming up in surrender.

— "I'm sorry, I didn't want to… Just give me five minutes, I'll warn my congregation and drive you home."

Already, his long legs were in motion.

— "I assure you this is not necessary," she called to him, barely able to turn around such was the stiffness of her spine muscles.

Father Tristan froze, the mask of his profession sliding upon his face instantly. In this moment, Frances found that she couldn't read him anymore. Squat. Not at all. And it felt weird, as if a concrete wall had just risen between them.

— "Not necessary, or unwelcome?" he asked, his voice carrying much further than she thought.

A wave of relief washed over her as she understood the reason for his state of tension. Father Tristan was making sure he wasn't overstepping his bounds in his efforts. Anger got blown in the wind, replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. Frances addressed him a gentle smile, one that – she hoped – conveyed how deeply she trusted him.

— "You are never unwelcome, father Tristan."

His features relaxed, his golden eyes softening.

— "Then let me help, please? As payment for the great repairs on my frock"

— "All right. You get to drive my fantastic mobile then."

He nodded, and disappeared in the thinning crowd. Frances didn't move an inch; her body was reaching the "out of battery" state already, and she was secretly glad that she wouldn't have to drive back. Although it wasn't the first time, the motorway could be treacherous in her state of exhaustion. And it would prevent her stupid calf from cramping on the pedal; blast those sore muscles and stupid virus!

Father Tristan was a smooth driver, and despite the weirdness of having a priest in her car, Frances found that her eyelids were dropping by themselves. She struggled with all her might; the young woman never slept whenever another person sat by her side. A refusal to show weakness, or perhaps, just politeness that prevented her from leaving the driver to his own musings. Still … today was proving rather difficult; she felt as ease with him. Fortunately, it was a short drive, and she managed to pull father Tristan in a conversation of sorts until she had to guide him on the deserted roads of their common city. Right, straight on, left, right again … the turns were endless.

When at last, he pulled the parking brake, Frances started. Damn, in the three minutes it had taken for them to find a spot, she had nearly fallen asleep.

— "All right," she murmured. "Time to move"

And she wasn't looking forward to it, for as usual, all the spots close to her flat had been taken at this hour and there was still some distance to cover. After half an hour sitting comfortably, she was loath to push her legs to function again. The muscles were cold now and would ache like hell. The passenger door was suddenly wrenched open and she now faced a very tall, very determined man of the cloth with his bag over his shoulder. Frances groaned, and grabbed hers before she wiggled her toes in her shoes. For the end of November, it wasn't so cold yet, but wet. Not raining, at least, but the road was covered with a thin layer of moist that caused the lights to shimmer.

Her calves protested, cramping slightly as she lifted her legs to put them on the ground under the priest's watchful eye. Gritting her teeth, she braced the sides of the car to push herself up, trying to keep her posture as straight as possible. The momentum sent her tumbling, and she would have crashed had two strong arms not wrapped around her shoulder and middle. For a millisecond, the time it took for her brain to catch that she was wrapped in a priest's arms, Frances felt at peace. Protected, safe, surrounded.

— "Easy, Frances. I've got you," he whispered.

His smooth tone sent shivers down her back, the intimacy of their embrace so overwhelming that she tightened her arms around his to keep aloft. From this close, she could even smell him, a faint, reassuring fragrance that went straight to her heart.

What was she doing? Damn virus, making her a cripple and taking advantage of a friend!

— "Sorry, sorry," she mumbled.

— "Don't be, it's all right. I'll help you"

His soft words washed over her like a benevolent wave and she understood, now, why he inspired such faith in people. His presence was so calming, so soothing, as if his proximity could erase all the hurts of the world. Anchored like an oak tree, sturdy like a rock.

Gathering her courage, Frances let him go and straightened herself. Her whole body screamed at the loss, but she couldn't allow this contact to remain. It was too overwhelming, and she needed her brain intact to make it home … to continue on her path. With a smile, she reassured the priest.

— "Thank you. My legs had become too stiff in the car. I can manage now"

— "I'll take you to your door."

The young woman nodded; it was in the right direction for him to get back to the church. The area wasn't really unsafe, but it was eleven at night after all.

— "What about you? Do you live close to the church? Shouldn't you take my car?"

Father Tristan walked close by in case she needed help, but kept his distance.

— "No, it's ten minutes from here, and I walk fast. I can take care of myself."

— "All right," she whispered, her eyes contemplating the grey light that danced in his irises.

The steep stairs that led to her building were negotiated with difficulty, and father Tristan offered his arm to help her up. She took it eagerly, revelling in the strength of his body, knowing that it would be the last time they touched. It felt like a blasphemy to allow her fingers to trail along his sleeve before the wet atmosphere separated them again.

— "Thank you for everything. You have been a great friend to me this evening."

His face was impassive, but in his eyes swam a thousand emotions that she could not decipher.

— "You are welcome, Frances. Rest well, and take time to heal."

— "I will. Goodnight, father Tristan"

— "Goodnight"

She fished the badge out of her bag, and he waited until she had passed the heavy door before he turned away, and rushed down the stairs. His robes billowed behind him as he disappeared from her sight like an angel of doom. This night, she dreamt of a gentle embrace. Of safety, and happiness, and the beauty of shared affection.

He had not seen her for ten days, ever since he offered her the disc bought at the concert. What brought him to gift her such a simple present? A kindness, perhaps, for he had so loved to see the stunned look on her face after the performance … right before he'd spotted how she limped.

Foolish woman. Driving in such a state! Still … he shouldn't have talked to her so harshly. Where had his legendary patience disappeared? Burnt away by the concern, probably, and it worried him. Years ago, he had sworn to never let his short temper dominate his life again… God had shown him the way, and he followed his teaching in all humility, making him a better man. A passionate man, still, for one couldn't change his own nature. Tristan had always been unsafe waters, powerful, like an Ocean. When the wave tide came, nothing could stop it, an unspeakable, unbreakable force that could devastate anything on the way. For fifteen years, he had worked at taming the waves, and mostly managed to avoid storms and tempests in the depth of his inner self. Even mood on the surface, simmering passion on the inside, all of them turned to God.

It was with no little amount of unease that Tristan mulled over his outburst – relatively, of course, he had scarcely raised his voice. Still, the swirl of emotions that had washed over him at seeing Frances so diminished … it didn't sit well with him. Her absence wasn't unwelcome; she was probably working hard before Christmas break. He understood why she came to the concert, that day, albeit he didn't condone it. Truth be told, he believed in miracles, and that beautiful music could heal all ailments. Perhaps not at once, of course, perhaps figuratively as well by filling hearts with hope. If any music could possibly help the young woman in the most difficult moments of her life, this was the CD he would have chosen for her.

And day after day, his thought returned to her, his sermons written with tendrils of her trials seeping in his examples. Always veiled, of course, but he couldn't help it. How did she fare, his this criminally thoughtless school her hers? How could a civilisation, so called evolved and advanced, authorise its youth to be pressured and treated so badly in the name of science, of knowledge? Had they all forgotten the teachings of the heavens? To care for each other, that God was love before all, and that no amount of knowledge could possibly replace kindness, empathy, and the intimate knowledge to be part of the world? To have a role to play, other than seeking money and a successful career?

He knew that Frances suffered from the system, an unwilling soul trapped on a path she had chosen out of respect for her parents, out or realism. With her brilliant mind, she found some solace in the teachings her teachers bestowed upon her. He saw how she learnt, how curious she was of religion and theology, how she connected things between his point of view and the outside world. How she tried to make things work, to find sense in the multitude of information that was thrown her way, her thoughts jumping from history, to languages, to medicine and ailments, mapping out a web of the world with every single of piece of theology he gave her. Her incessant questioning was so earnest, so refreshing, without an ounce of judgement. She had passed the point where her education mattered, taken so many steps into understanding his faith, trying to share it without betraying her own beliefs. Mending the gap between her communist, very down to earth education and his higher spiritual purpose.

So he understood her distress when she had to learn things the stupid way, taking her time, her health, and her spirit away from greater things. Every time she came in, dark circles under her eyes, defeated, Tristan felt his heart lurch. She was such a sweet unassuming girl who didn't want a career, or be admired because she was brilliant. She wasn't after money, even if "it didn't hurt to have some". No, Frances yearned to be useful, to be part of something and the more she studied, the more she realised how misplaced she was in its ugly reality. It left Tristan with mixed feelings. Sadness to see her struggles and disappointment, but relief to be able to guide her so that she wasn't alone on the path.

So today, when she nearly barreled into the church, her eyes twinkling in mischief and excited like a five year old, Tristan's eyebrows couldn't help but shoot up. Her long reddish hair, so often tied up in a bun, swayed around her shoulders with each step. What had her in such a good mood that her happiness radiated from head to toe? It affected him, and he couldn't help the fond smile that brightened his own face.

— "Good evening, Frances. I am glad to see you well."

— "Good evening, Father Tristan. Likewise"

Tristan dipped his head slightly to acknowledge her response, awaiting to see whether she wanted his company, or merely to wander alone and light up a candle in her grandmother's memory. Suddenly, the bonding bundle of energy beside him retreated, shyness taking over as she remained silent.

— "How was your week?" he eventually asked, puzzled by her attitude.

For a long moment, the young woman proceeded to tell him what she had learnt – magmatology, stratigraphy, cartography – and how the teacher – Bruno – had brought her hot chocolate with the order not to breathe a word to anyone about it. The same man who had offered to teach her salsa in a soirée her friends had dragged her to … fleeing when his official girlfriend appeared after a shared dance. Frances only laughed at this, not bothered at all, and wondering why this beautiful woman would be jealous of someone like her. She was, after all, unavailable and so was her teacher. So it didn't hurt to be friendly, right?

Tristan tried to keep his face neutral, deeply unsettled that a man, a teacher nonetheless, could behave in such a way. Frances was so oblivious sometimes – she didn't realise men and boys alike fell at her feet - so entranced by her own boyfriend to even remark that those attentions were not as innocent as she thought. To her, stating that she was in a long-term relationship, however dysfunctional, ruled out her availability with men. So she acted freely, openly with the others, naively believing that they wouldn't try and seduce her. Missing, even, that some tried with all their might… She just didn't register it; Frances would never know how to flirt. He didn't blame those men, she was so genuine, so lovely, so full of light. How could they not be blinded by her dazzling smile and tender affection?

At last, she took a deep breath, and seemed to gather herself. Father Tristan sat on the bench, his body still, awaiting. Like a big cat hidden in the shadows, his breath even. Something was coming, and it hopefully would be nicer than hearing about… other men.

— "I have roamed the internet for religious music, and found so many beautiful things," she started.

All right… He had not expected this. Tristan stirred his brain away from the past line of thoughts. 'Music it is'.

— "Yes. There have been people inspired by faith for centuries. Will you share what you have found?"

— "Yes, I'll give you the titles and the links, if you wish. You probably know all of them already."

The priest shook his head, unconvinced.

— "You seem to be very proficient at finding things on the internet, Frances. More than I am"

Not that he couldn't use technology, but he was nearly ten years older than she was, and it made the slight difference between being born with it or having to learn in his twenties. Frances dismissed his praise with practised ease – she always had a justification for every single good thing.

— "Ah, professional tick, if I may say. Anyway. I have given a lot of thought about singing since you told me that I should try."

— "You have?"

The young woman nodded, her warm almond shaped eyes peering at him with intensity.

— "Yes. So I have. Tried, I mean. Would you…"

The young lady seemed to need more encouragement.

— "Yes?" he asked softly.

— "Would you like to hear it someday?"

— "Well, the church is pretty empty, so now seems like as good a moment as any."

Nibbling on her lower lip, Frances seemed frozen to the spot.

— "Are you sure? In the church ?"

— "Yes. Come, stand beside the statue of our beloved Marie, and I will go and switch the sound off for a moment."

Tristan stood instantly; the occasion was too good to be true, and he couldn't allow her to escape. His long legs strode to the sound system commands, the black frock billowing around his legs and he couldn't prevent but think of the equilibrium movie. He smirked; she had contaminated him with her image! One moment later, he was sitting again on the bench, eagerly awaiting for Frances to sing. He wasn't expecting much of this, but it pleased him that she would dare trying.

— "I … feel a little stupid, but I trained so it shouldn't be so bad."

— "I am eager to hear you, Frances."

No false reassurance, no urge to perform. Just the plain truth. Her mouth opened, and he recognised her choice at once – Adeste Fidelis. A Christmas song. What surprised him, though, was the tonality. Would she be able to sustain the higher notes without cracking? Tristan watched, mesmerised, as the Latin words spilled from her mouth as if she'd written them herself. The accent was right, for sure … but her voice. Tristan was stunned. Her voice range true, filling the church which bounced it back to her in the purest of manners.

A soprano, a damn fine one, her voice pure and strong, her tone crystalline. Wow. To think that he might have never heard her. As she sang, standing beside Marie, he couldn't help the wide smile that crept on his face. His heart swelled with a renewed sense of joy. And when at last, she finished the first verse, he stood.

— "Come," he said, his mind in haze, barely refraining the urge to grasp for her hand.

Frances emerged from her trance, surprised by his strange outburst but followed him nonetheless. Tristan purposefully walked to the altar and, standing tall on front of the illuminated transept, turned to the young woman.

— "Sing again, please"

She didn't question him, obeying without a protest. He was grateful for it. As her beautiful voice rose again in his beloved church, now reaching every single corner, his own voice rose to greet her. France slightly faltered; she didn't expect him to join her. But when his soft baritone doubled her words, she sighing high, and he adding the undertones, the world seemed at least at peace. Two voices, united in beauty, each of them with their own faith, each respecting the other, each of them singing praises to the creator in such a perfect harmony. The light engulfed him, caressing, vibrating in every single cell of his body. His chest, pierced by the grace of the Lord, more powerful than any tide. And the storm within rose, waves high and strangely harmless. His passion unleashed.

They both stood before the altar, side by side, never touching, never crossing that line, but united through their souls. Tears slipped from her eyes –overwhelmed – and Tristan fought hard to keep his eyes dry. He failed, but kept on singing, his smooth voice joining hers in the most beautiful of duo. For he couldn't falter; by his side stood an angel.

_**As Leelee would say, please review, favourite and follow :p**_


	26. Chapter 26 - God Part IV

_**Hey, super long chapter to make up for the wait. And honestly, I just didn't know where to cut it :p**_

Time flew, and Christmas was spent slaving over her work for the January exams. She had not dared buying a present to Father Tristan, albeit she really wanted to. It felt … too personal. Like crossing an invisible line. She had left in a hurry before the holidays, wishing him well, the burden of the upcoming months heavy upon her shoulders. Fortunately, a week spend in a ski resort with her parents had given her the fuel to go on. Bless them for this fantastic idea; there was nothing like watching Father Christmas descending the steepest slopes with his suite of torchbearers.

The second week was spent with her head into books with a slight pause to spend New Year's eve with her boyfriend. Needless to say, that she didn't feel like uprooting herself from home at the beginning of January. The only light in the horizon; knowing that father Tristan would relieve the burden with his support when she would step foot in church. Unfortunately, she only had time to visit once, then the swirl of impossible schedule carried her away from her newfound stability. France's own little hell lasted at least three more weeks. Exams, classes, revision, team meeting, exams… When it eventually finished at the end of January, all tests passed, all dossiers wrapped up, she couldn't resist a week end back home. She returned with a set of her favourite chocolate treats.

An apology for being absent for so long. Since December, she had visited only once and rambled about the stupidity of squeezing her within an inch of exhaustion. The schedule had been hell, and she knew it would take a tremendous amount of time for her to recover from it. This very week end, she planned to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. So it was with a renewed spring in her step that she passed the church's doors on Thursday afternoon, the bag of chocolates nestled in her holdall handbag. She awaited for father Tristan for quite some time; he was busy with an elderly woman in need of a sympathetic ear. She didn't mind; for once, doing nothing was just so fantastic. At last, she had the luxury to keep space for her own thoughts. Frances closed her eyes, and let the calm music soothe her aching back, plunging into a meditative trance.

— "Hello, Frances. I hope you have not waited for too long."

— "Oh no, I was quite happy to have time with my thoughts. You never know how precious it is until you lose that space in your head."

The priest's countenance seems to falter a moment, but his smooth voice didn't.

— "I thank you for your patience nonetheless," he said kindly.

She couldn't possibly let him apologise for doing his job. If anything, she was the one intruding; since she never came to mass and wasn't a parishioner, she sometimes felt guilty for taking his time. Yet, he didn't seem to mind.

— "This is what you do, Father Tristan. Take care of your parishioners. Your calling takes precedence over the rest. It is I, who thank you for your presence by my side in the moments I need support."

His eyes softened as he gave an imperceptible bow; his way of acknowledging her thanks.

— "You are very welcome."

Feeling a little stressed – she didn't know how he would react – Frances opened her bag.

— "There, I have something for you."

A very faint eyebrow – there were strangely blond – lifted upon his forehead, betraying his intrigue.

— "Another movie?"

— "No, a more substantial bribe"

Frances nearly blushed as she fished the shiny red packet and deposited it in his hands.

— "To flatter your sweet tooth," she explained with a smile.

That little plastic bag was too noisy to allow him to open it on the spot, but his lips quirked in a smile.

— "Thank you, Frances"

She smiled back, happy that such a simple gift could bring him joy.

— "It's from that little artisan I told you about, in my place. I didn't quite know what to choose, so I just took my favourites and hoped you would share the taste."

— "It is very thoughtful," he said, his warm golden-flecked eyes resting gently upon her face.

The weight of his gaze caused her to drop hers in her lap.

— "I was absent a lot, and felt I have neglected our friendship."

The rest was left unsaid, for she couldn't find the words to tell him how she had thought of him in every single little thing. How she had listened to that disc, and many other religious hymns to keep her concentration as she worked. How she virtually kept on rambling to him in her head. How she tried to keep her cool in an attempt to be more stoic.

— "You owe me nothing, Frances," he started.

— "I know. And you can't even fathom how I appreciate it. But still, I consider you my friend, and friendship goes both ways"

Silence greeted this statement, and she wondered if she had gone too far. But he resumed the conversation soon after, the shiny little packet sitting between them on the bench. A token of affection. They talked of her exams, and the incredible pressure that she had now escaped for the schedule was changing; bless the specialisation! He welcomed the news with relief, his eyes giving away how worried he had been for her well-being. Somehow, she was glad she had kept away from the church, for his gentle admonishment might have caused her to quit this crazy school altogether. Had he supported her, agreed with her on how destructive this all was, she wouldn't have kept afloat.

— "So what will you do with your newfound freedom?" he asked gently.

How did he manage to always find the right words, to describe a situation with a few words and bring such clarity?

— "Resume ice-skating classes, read, I think, and enjoy my week ends. I'll go for a walk on Sunday, perhaps even a picnic."

— "On your own?" he asked.

And the little frown told her he was worried. Again. And she couldn't help but find his expression adorable when he did so; it brought the boy out of his stoic shell. As if she could catch a glimpse of the youth, he had been many years ago.

— "Yes. It will be cold, but sunny. I know the best place to sit and contemplate the world, up there on the cliff."

Her voice rang clear and true, the anticipation already washing its beneficent tendrils over her tired mind.

— "Is it dangerous?"

Frances blinked; dangerous, whatever for? Did he mean the hike? She refrained the need to chuckle, it wouldn't do to mock his concern. After all, father Tristan was not accustomed to her habits of climbing everywhere. He couldn't have known the precarious positions she had found herself in in the past years, nor the spectacular falls that sometimes ensued in the forest behind her house. Her guardian angels were truthfully pretty talented, for despite her antics, she'd never once broken anything while playing the spider on rocky outcrops or in massive trees.

— "Not at all. And even then, I'm a good climber. No risk at all"

She thought he would relent, for he pursed his lips. They disappeared in his groomed chestnut beard for a while. Evidently, she was wrong.

— "Even with the cold?"

Good point. Freezing weather made cold hands, hence the fact that she always carried silk gloves in her bag.

— "Dry cold is nice and I can build a fire anywhere. Blame my childhood occupations"

— "Can I trust you to keep away from danger?"

It was a very serious question that took her aback; her parents didn't even ask anymore, knowing her tomboy tendencies. They worried still, but had learnt of her sturdiness. For a moment, Frances watched those mesmerising eyes as they pinned her on the bench; he was still waiting for her answer.

— "You can. I know this place like the back of my hand."

— "Do you make a habit of hiking alone?"

Frances shrugged, wondering if she should feel spooked or flattered by his mothering. But then, after her misadventure with the flu, she understood why he felt compelled to ask for a little caution.

— "Well, I do enjoy solitude more than bad companionship. And if I had to wait for my boyfriend to go hiking, I'd be trapped at home until the rest of my days. I don't mind being alone, I'm used to it. But you'll be welcome if you want to join after your sermon"

Stunned silence followed, time stopped. Father Tristan's shifted in his seat, his eyes landing on virgin Marie's statue as he mulled over her words. Would he catch that she had, inadvertently, dubbed him good company? For she had no qualms telling her classmates to go to hell whenever she wished for solitude, and he knew it. Then, the enormity of her proposal hit her like a brick wall. She had just asked a priest to spend Sunday afternoon with a lone, unmarried woman! The church had probably a ton of rules that prevented such a thing, and he probably had a dozen engagements for this week end. Stupid, stupid her! Seeing Tristan's continued silence, and the way his posture had tensed, she rushed to apologise.

— "Oh, this is where I crossed the invisible line I shouldn't cross, right? It probably is against regulation or something"

Father Tristan didn't meet her eyes, and she was content to consider the loose thread that tried to escape her sleeve.

— "No regulations, no."

Then she felt it; the smouldering gaze that always kept her trapped. As she lifted her eyes to meet his, her breath caught.

— "The line … you didn't cross it, you just offered me to do it."

Sheepish, Frances stood from the bench, dragging her bag to keep her hands busy.

— "Right, I'm sorry. I'll leave you in peace and head home to sleep the rest of the week away."

The priest stood smoothly.

— "All right, please take care of yourself, Frances. I would hate to see you hurt."

She retreated to the entrance, wondering why the rejection – if very logical – hurt her feelings so badly. His long legs allowed Father Tristan to follow her on the cobblestones, yet she didn't dare lifting her gaze to him. At last, her hand landed on the aged wood, sending a wave of reassurance. Strangely, this place had become a second home to her and her heart always lightened whenever she pushed the door open.

— "Until next week, Father Tristan," she told him quietly.

The door didn't clang behind her for once, but Frances was too far lost in her shame to notice it. She almost didn't register father Tristan calling her name as her legs carried her away. The young woman spun on her heels, seeing the man, for the first time, outside the imposing building. His tall frame, clad in his black robes, filled the full-oak door.

— "Sorry… Yes?"

His tongue passed over his upper lip; a nervous gesture.

— "I … I'd love to join you."

Frances' face brightened at that, a full smile blooming on her lips. As the priest fidgeted, she nodded, businesslike.

— "All right. I'll pick you up after mass."

She retreated swiftly, fearing he might change his mind. Her heart soared, and she didn't even register the rain pattering around her on the cobblestone while she pondered on the dish she would cook for him. She couldn't wait for Sunday!

Today was a special day, and Frances stored the rice salad and cutlery in her backpack. As she drove to the church, the young woman nibbled on her lower lip. What if father Tristan had changed his mind? Refused to come? After all, it was highly unusual a situation for him. What if he had asked his superior and been rebuked? Or lectured?

Her palms were sweating now, and she berated herself as she looked for a parking space. There! A tiny one, just enough to park her diminutive, rounded car. Frances backed into the space with practised ease, then pulled the handbrake. Her head fell upon the steering wheel with a thud. Her heart was racing out of stress, and she took a few, deep breaths to steady it. This whole panic was stupid. Father Tristan was a friend, a dear one at that. He would not complain about the spot, or the food, or anything else. And if he couldn't come because of religious laws, then so be it. It still was a beautiful day, the sun shone outside, white tiny ice crystals sparkling upon the trees after a very cold night. Ideal weather to be outside, without an ounce of wind. The view out on the crop would be incredible, and so soothing. She couldn't wait to climb up there.

Her heart was now beating steadily, all manners of nervousness discarded. Frances extricated herself from her seat and slammed the door shut, the bag left in the trunk for safety. Her long legs took her to the church in no time, and she made her way in. Mass had finished forty minutes ago, and by now, there were only a handful of faithful conversing at the door. But Father Tristan's voice echoed from inside, indicating that he was engaged with several parishioners. Frances discreetly walked in and, catching his eye, only nodded before she went to settle upon her bench.

She watched the candles flicker under Marie's feet, her thoughts settling at the familiar view. Father Tristan came around ten minutes later, still dressed in the traditional frock that suited him so well. Instead of settling behind her, he just bent slightly to greet her.

— "Good morning, Frances. I need to change, now. Can me meet outside in five minutes?"

— "Of course," she responded, her heart soaring at the idea that he had not pushed her away.

The priest nodded and disappeared in the shadows of the church, his long robes flapping around his ankles with flourish. The young woman took a few minutes to bask in the quietness of the place before she stood. Outside, the crisp air greeted her without warning; the sun had yet to illuminate the façade and it was still below zero. Fishing the aquamarine gloves out of her bag, Frances trailed a little further from the entrance to gaze at the spotless sky. Aside from her technical underwear, she wore a sleeveless fleece jacket that should keep her warm enough. Despite the freezing temperature, the absence of moist and wind was a blessing.

Her head snapped aside on its own; father Tristan was but a few feet away, dressed in cargo pants, walking boots and a warm jacket that revealed the collar of his order. The strap upon his shoulder betrayed a backpack, but Frances had only eyes for the man. It was the first time she saw him without the traditional habit. She had expected to find him more ordinary, perhaps less impressive. But the truth was that this man still called her eyes, still commanded her attention. Even without the suit, there was no denying the magnetism of his presence. The firm set of shoulders showed his posture was no more relaxed than when he officiated, energy simmering just below the surface.

Seeing him in plain daylight revealed things she had not noticed beforehand. The way his eyes captured sunrays, the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, hidden below the beard, the tone of his skin, slightly darker than hers. And his hair, this warm chestnut that took on rusty hues. But more than that, she was taken aback by the energy that seemed to radiate of him. The ever-poised man, appeased in church, seemed to harbour an endless swirl of energy that begged to be released. The revelation wasn't entirely conscious, and Frances just watched his long steps, puzzled about the feelings assaulting her.

Father Tristan had just become a three-dimensional being, someone, rather than a higher spirit that belonged to angels and choirs. A human.

And truth be told, she found this newly appointed human beautiful.

— "Ready?" he asked.

His smooth voice shook her out of her musings. This, at last, had not changed. The same caressing tone she had come to associate with relief. The young woman nodded, and, engaging in light-hearted conversation, drew the man to her car. Then to the hills, a mere thirty minutes away, still chatting about this and that. At first, Father Tristan only punctuated her sentences, still the active listener her used to be. Then, little by little, she managed to shake him out of his role. Thus began a real conversation where both parties shared childhood memories, experiences or thoughts about the world in general. Frances discovered that, when engaged in conversation, Father Tristan possessed quite a wicked sense of humour.

Frances enjoyed the joyful banter until she had to park her car on the roadside. Father Tristan extricated himself from the passenger seat – his six feet had trouble fitting in the rounded beetle-like vehicle – then gave a thoughtful look to the hill they were supposed to climb. Deep into the gorges of the local river, the steep incline of beige rock awaited them. Trees hid the spot from view, so much that he could only rely on Frances to guide him.

— "No map?" he asked as she shouldered her backpack.

The young woman blinked.

— "Nah. I could roam those hills at night with my eyes closed."

— "That would defeat the purpose."

Frances chuckled at his jab, then crossed the road and found a little track where they could walk side by side. Thus started a half-hour trek that led them uphill amongst trees and detached rocks, with them sharing a few words here and there, but mostly taking in the landscape. At last, they emerged from the trees to engage on a much narrower, rocky path. No matter how many times Frances hiked there, she couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of it. Below, way down below now, the river sparkled with the low angle winter light. In many places, ice still lingered, adding freckles of white on an already clear water. Frances paused then, relishing in the sunrays hitting her flushed cheeks, and fishing water out of her bag.

She passed the bottle on to her companion, who took it without a second thought. He was barely winded, a feat for she knew she walked fast! But then, so did he with his insanely long legs. Behind them, the rock was cut in huge unnatural stairs, and she spotted his intrigued look.

— "It used to be a quarry," Frances explained. "Many of the building of the city are made of this stone, perhaps the church itself,"

Father Tristan asked a thousand questions about the rock – calcite from the Jurassic Era, a name chosen in the Jura mountain close to her own place. His curiosity was a delight and for once, Frances didn't begrudge her teachings as it allowed her to feed it.

— "Come," she said. "On the next level, I found a fossilised beach. You're going to love it."

— "A fossilised beach?" he echoed, incredulous.

— "Yeah. It's a sight. I'll show you"

She hopped upon the narrow path like a mountain goat, her little shoes much lighter than his, and he understood now why she had seemed so spooked by his concerns. Frances was clearly at ease among rocks, and he didn't doubt she could climb the cliff full front rather than take the path if need be. Her silhouette was lithe, her muscles powerful, her strides purposeful. His alter ego, somehow, for he was as sure-footed as she was, and bristling with energy. This place, somehow, fuelled his heart. A little taste of freedom, of strings detaching the higher they went, with the lazy river flowing far below to civilisation.

At last, Frances stopped in front of a strange curvy outcrop.

— "See," she said, pointing to the inward curve that measured at least five feet. "This part is what remains of a cliffside battered by the waves."

Then she stood on tiptoes and, realising she was still too small, found a spot on the side to climb upon the cliff side. As expected, she seemed as much at ease with only her toes clutching to the rocky asperities than on the ground. So Tristan held his tongue – keeping his worries in check - concentrating instead on the wavy outcrop she was showing him. It was amazing, how it seemed that the sand itself had imprinted the pattern of small waves.

— "This, here, means we are on calmer waters. It is on top of the first cliff, meaning it happened afterwards in the history of earth."

Tristan frowned, trying to grasp the concept of sedimentation.

— "So what, the climate changed?"

Frances shook her head, still hanging in equilibrium upon the cliff face, her fingers tracing the patterns gently, as is searching something. Her little nose scrunched in concentration as she detailed the rock and she responded without even seeming to think about it. Automatic geology mode.

— "In a few million years, not likely. But it means we are closer to shore, and there probably was a coral reef somewhere to shield this piece."

She twisted sideways, her flank leaning upon the cliff as she spread her arms outwards, as if pointing to the Ocean that might have covered miles and miles beyond this point. He had no issues imagining it, waves crashing on the horizon upon the corral while they gently flapped on the shoreline.

— "How long ago was this?" he asked.

Frances jumped down, her feet landing with barely a thud beside him.

— "Jurassic, so roughly a 150 million years ago. The climate was much warmer, and the sea covered much of the area round here until it soared 30 million years ago"

Tristan tried to calculate what it meant in his head, but failed at grasping the timeline as he wasn't used to those scales.

— "The sea was higher because of the climate ?"

Frances shook her head; no, it wasn't an issue of global warming.

— "No. The conformation of this area was different, with no relief at all until the Alps came"

Tristan nodded; the making of the alps held some interest, but it would have to wait until later for he wasn't finished with his reconstitution of the place.

— "So we have not been out of the water for such a long time", he mused.

Frances gave him a mischievous smile.

— "Yeah. Luckily, we're out of the woods now"

A laugh bubbled in his chest, but she didn't let him ponder on this tough as she pointed to all sorts of shells embedded in the rock. The area was pretty populated to the experienced eye; he might have missed 90% of the shells if she had not pointed to them in the first place. Some were animals, a few others, imprint and remains of sea life. No huge ammonite in there, only tidbits that reminded them that life had existed in many, many different forms before humans walked this very earth. Tristan wasn't a creationist, per se, choosing to interpret the writings with a more open mind. And this … those proofs that life had been, and would be should humanity take care of it, was the reminder of their little place in the world.

As they climbed once more, level after level in the old quarry, Tristan shared his inner musings. He was surprised to hear Frances echo his thoughts.

— "I find, too, that geology puts us back into our place. It gives men the meaning of how little they represent over the history of earth, and how we should refrain from ruining what was before us."

— "Ecology through geology," Tristan stated at they reached the upper level.

He paused then, taking in the large terrasse of hardened rock devoid of large trees. At his feet, the lazy river snaked around hills and forests, its waters sparkling in the sunshine. Tristan removed his jacket, letting the crisp air cool him down as his eyes settled on the northern valley. Icy, wet fog still clung to the village, drowning the lower levels of the river into a cloudy mist that contrasted with the low sun. It truly was beautiful up there. Beside him, Frances stood, her warm chocolate eyes fixed upon the horizon; she was enjoying this just as much. Basking in the beauty of her surroundings, leaving all burdens behind. Her shoulders were relaxed, the fleece sleeveless coat fitting snugly to her form. Her long braid, sat upon her breast, reddish strands catching fire with the winter light. Cheeks flushed, features relaxed… beautiful.

— "Stargazing does the same thing to me," she eventually said.

Shaken out of his reverie, Tristan merely addressed her an interrogative look to push her to elaborate.

— "The lab next door to my school specialises in astronomy, and there is nothing like learning of the origins of the universe to put things in perspective. A little humility would be nice. I think they are my favourite teachers"

Tristan nodded. Here, there, he was catching a real glimpse at Frances' world. Until now, she had brought hers into his, seeking him in the safe heaven of his church. But today, he was the outsider. Somewhere deep within, his heart lurched painfully … how much of a gap was there between them?

— "So where does God fit, in this?"

Frances cocked her head aside, then pointed to a circle of fire on the ground with rocks around it. As they settled on the improvised seats, the young woman opened her bag to fish the food out.

— "You know… I have this friend that works in the genetics department in university. A faithful Catholic."

Tristan noted how the notion still seemed to grate on her tongue; he could understand why, even if it was the institution that had welcomed him in the first place. The cradle of his own faith, the principles that had made him a grown man. Would she ever let go of her anger?

— "He says nature is the proof that God exists."

— "So how does he mingle the two views?"

As she fished out items from her bag, Tristan noticed that his breath had stopped creating volutes now as they sat in the sunlight.

— "Naturally. Are you familiar with the Fibonacci suite?"

— "A little."

He didn't ask what it had to do with the rest, knowing how Frances' mind worked by now. She would put all hypotheses and facts before linking them together, much like a scientist rather than like a taleteller. She gave him a Tupperware, a fork and a cloth towel to lay upon his thigh, all the while speaking about Fibonacci.

— "In high school, friends made a presentation on how Fibonacci's suite is linked to the golden number, and how nature is organised to be perfectly balanced, yet uneven. That a plant would start with one leaf, then two, then three on the next level, then five, and so it goes, following this beautiful pattern that enclosed perfection. The same you find in Nautile's shells and all sorts of plants. They call it God's math"

Forgetting his food, Tristan's mind mused over the mathematical concept.

— "I didn't know that"

Frances opened her own meal, pointing the fork in his direction with a playful smirk.

— "If you did, you'd be more a geek than a man of the cloth. But you can search on the net about nature and Fibonacci suite."

— "I think I will," he nodded, lifting up the lid to find a rice salad laden with colourful items.

The priest dug into the dish, taking a mouthful in hopes of analysing the different tastes that assaulted his tongue. Coriander, carott, sunflower seeds, olive oil… sesame ? It was delicious, but there were far too many underlying flavours, and his brain could only do one thing at the same time. And at the moment, he was listening raptly to a very strange young woman. When Frances was excited about something, her pace increased enough for him to struggle.

— "Good you'll tell me what you find. Anyway. So my friend working in genetics, he says that in every lab, there are faithful believers like him because when you see the perfection of natural things, there can only be the hand of God to make it so. That statistically, there should have been hundreds of millions of mutations to make animals and plants the way they are, but many of those should never have happened, or not migrated to gonads. Hence, not transmitted to the next generation"

Tristan nodded, his fork forgotten, knowing he was missing some information but intent on keeping up just as well. Did she realise, with her friends in genetics, astrophysics or thermodynamics, that she talked to a priest whose theoretical mathematics ended after the A-Levels? Not that he was bad, far from it, mathematics were easy for he was a very logical man. Still…

— "And that, even if the most adapted are supposed to evolve, it wouldn't have come to this degree of perfection if you keep to statistics. A proof of God's hand, if you will. Something that bridges between Darwin and the creation"

The rambling had ceased, and Frances returned to her rice salad as if they'd had just conversed about the weather. What kind of entertainment could a woman like that appreciate when her brain ran full speed like this all the time? Swallowing another mouthful of his own meal – that stuff flattered his tastebuds, just like her chocolates had! —Tristan eventually questioned:

— "It is a clever way to put it. What do you think of it? Is God seen in nature, or is it pure evolution?"

The young woman considered her words carefully, then she stared at him across the circle of ashes on the ground.

— "When I walked into your church, I was a fervent atheist but I think that with your guidance, I have become an agnostic."

Her words touched him deeply, and for a moment, Tristan could only stare in her beautiful eyes, quite stunned. Then he regained his bearings, and a tiny smile quirked his lips.

— "Open-minded, and waiting for further proof?"

Frances balanced her fork upon her knee to drink, yet he could nearly hear the cogs turning in her mind.

— "Honestly… I don't think I mind if God exists or not, because my choices are mine, and mine alone. I am responsible for them, no matter who is watching over there."

— "An honest answer."

And the subject of her beliefs was closed … the counterattack came swiftly. Three mouthfuls of salad, at best, before she asked a question that he knew was coming.

— "Can I ask you a question, father Tristan?"

— "Tristan, here. And have you ever hesitated?" he countered merrily.

The truth was that she did; the more she knew him, the more her affection grew, the more she tended to refrain from hurting his feelings. It helped that her misgivings with the Catholic religion had abated, soothed by the gentle light of the man who sat before her.

— "However did you become a priest?"

— "Anger management. I nearly killed a boy, back then. I was fifteen."

Instead of disgust, fear, or astonishment, Tristan was surprised to find only curiosity in Frances' eyes. The absence of judgement caused his chest to relax.

— "What happened?"

He had heard this question more often than not, especially at the seminary. Most of the time, details were requested by people who enjoyed gossips, or those who wanted to insist upon his redemption. But Frances' question was a pure effort to understand, and thus, he felt free to give her his truth, the one that sat deep within, rather than recount the facts.

— "It was a foolish street fight. I do possess a temper, and that altercation very nearly finished dramatically. On that day, I decided that I needed to find a different way to live my life. The teachings of the church brought me much solace, and a clear path. As for the rest, Tai Chi also helps."

Two perfectly shaped eyebrows rose upon her forehead.

— "Oh, it makes sense. I understand that Equilibrium image much better now."

Tristan smirked at that. The image was stuck in his mind, now, because of her.

— "You are a sensitive woman, Frances."

She gave him a tiny smile of acknowledgement.

— "I felt it…"

— "Felt… what ?"

— "There's this hard core within you sometimes, this gleam in your eyes. I always knew you were dangerous."

Ill at ease, Frances shrugged then, putting the empty box of salad beside her as Tristan's eyes followed her every move. How had she, so easily, seen the steel he was made off? Read those flickers in his eyes?

— "Yet you trust me," he deadpanned to cover the shock of her perceptiveness.

— "Yes, you have shown nothing but kindness to me. There is nothing wrong in being dangerous, the intention is all that counts. Your skill is a tool, nothing more."

The priest polished whatever was left of the eggs and tomatoes at the bottom of his own Tupperware, considering her answer. As the Tai-Chi teacher, plenty of youth feared him, or incensed him. Both reactions were pretty common, and sometimes took months to handle. Some of them still worshipped him, three years after their debut.

— "But tell me, it is pretty unusual for a priest to delve into Chinese energy."

Ah, trust her mind to start putting things in perspective.

— "It shouldn't," Tristan answered evenly. "God is in everything, everywhere we want to find him. Just like you said, we have to find our place in the world."

There was a pleasant gleam in her eyes as she collected boxes and forks to pile it up in her bag once more, a pleased expression that told him she fully agreed with his response.

— "I understand now why it is so easy to talk to you. You are so open-minded."

— "Thank you, Frances. For your words, and for the meal. It was delicious."

Her response was a genuine smile that left him a little breathless. Driving his tongue over his upper teeth, Tristan tried to keep track of the conversation, determined to ignore the flutters that danced in his stomach.

— "We all know, the young ones, that the church needs to evolve. Somehow, I am glad to be here for those in need. And speaking of those in need…"

His lips quirked up as he fished a shiny packet out of his bag; the very same she had offered him. Frances' eyes widened dramatically and she nearly jumped up and down like a child.

— "Wow, you actually managed to save some chocolate! You've got my admiration until the end of times."

— "Judgement day," he deadpanned.

— "Yeah, and beyond. Do you think there will be chocolate in paradise?" she asked.

— "Better than seventy virgins"

Bending over, Frances laughed this time. A full, genuine laugh that lit her eyes and echoed over the rocky wall that backed them. The sound caused him to pause; he'd never heard her laugh like this. In church, they always conversed in low voices, and kept to chuckles. But here, in the outside world with no one in sight, Frances felt free to be herself and shared his mirth easily.

— "Thank you, Tristan. I needed this. And the chocolate is just too good to be true."

The priest grinned, his senses floating in glee. How long it had been since he had enjoyed a moment so fully, so easily? She was such a joy to be around, her laugh a beautiful sound that called to the heavens, her delicate features relaxed.

— "The lady cooked the meal, so it seemed fitting that I brought your favourites."

She extracted a thermos of tea from her bag, subtle, hot liquid that they shared in a common bowl, sitting side by side to be able to pass it along. And thus, Frances and Tristan, shrouded in silence, watched the sun run along its course as they shared the delicious chocolates from her home place. For a while, there was nothing more than the mist shredding, the sweetness of sugar coating his tongue, the strength of chocolate, its full, warm savour filling his mouth. And her breathing, so close to him, as she watched the landscape with the contentment of a cat, all muscles relaxed, bathing in sunlight and the pure, crisp air of winter.

A spiritual moment. For him, God, Earth, they were one and the same.

When at last, they both decided to return home, the sun had travelled a great deal across the sky. Tristan felt at peace, even more so than when he meditated or communicated. They gathered their gear, and started down the quarry on the narrow path of rolling stones. The magic was gone now, but the spirit remained, and thus their walk back was spent at a leisurely pace.

— "Are you going home for then next session of holidays?" Tristan eventually asked the young woman when they settled in the car.

Her face fell at once, and the priest berated himself for asking the wrong question. Yet, he couldn't fathom what was wrong.

— "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

The frown that had settled on her face cleared at once.

— "Oh no! I mean. You are not prying, I just… I'm supposed to take a few days in the south west of France with my boyfriend, but I feel like he's not happy about it."

— "About spending time with you?"

After the joy this afternoon had brought him, Tristan couldn't possibly fathom how a man wouldn't want to be with a woman like her. Frances sighed, and the defeated expression broke his heart.

— "About anything, honestly. I think he suffers from mild depression, but doesn't want to admit it. And I'm tired of holding him up above the surface,"

Tristan frowned then, looking out of the window to gather his thoughts. So perhaps the man wasn't a manipulator as he feared, but he was still draining Frances' energy all the same. And she didn't have much to spare in the first place, albeit this little woman was sturdier than she looked.

— "You think I am overreacting?" she eventually asked, misinterpreting his silence.

— "No, on the contrary"

The young woman bit her lip, keeping her eyes firmly on the road. She needed to talk, and Tristan reverted to his active listening habits.

— "I can't really talk about him with my family, my mother hates him and my father … he is too respectful to say anything."

— "Why?"

Oh, he had an idea why, but he needed Frances to go along with the idea and get acquainted with it. Consciously.

— "They think he is not taking care of me, I guess."

— "I would quite concur with your parents on this. But if the man suffers from depression, it is hardly surprising."

His analysis seemed to strike a chord. Taking advantage of a red traffic light, Frances stole a glance at him.

— "I just don't know what to do. I'm tired of struggling."

The priest gave her an intense look, trying to catch her thoughts without being too overwhelming. By the way she lowered her gaze, he knew he had failed. At this point, then, better to throw the pebble in the pond. Hence his thousand dollar question.

— "Forgive me for asking, but do you still love him?"

The light turned to green and Frances took advantage of the traffic to delay her answer. There was no "yes" or "no" forthcoming at this point, but it was to be expected.

— "I … I thought I had touched his soul, you know. At first, I didn't even notice what he looked like because we shared such a connection. It was nothing physical."

— "And now?"

Tristan cringed at his own pushiness, but Frances was begging, unconsciously, for his help.

— "His soul is buried under a ton of dirt, and I don't even catch a glimpse anymore. I am tired of being the one to reach for him, and drag him away from all this weight. He insists things are going to change, that he will get better, but it doesn't happen. When he comes around, he watches TV all day, except for a restaurant in the evening. When I come to him, it's just the same. You see the kind of woman I am … this is not what I want with my life!"

Yes, he had seen, quite brilliantly the kind of woman she was. A female alter ego, with less anger, and more light. A free soul, that thrived in the outdoors and enjoyed kindness like no other. She was so beautiful, inside out, and he hated to see her hurt. Yet, he needed to remain as neutral as possible if he wanted to help her find her way.

— "You feel like the connection is broken?"

Sadness washed over her lovely features, and Tristan had to refrain from the urge to grab her hand into his. His mind ached to give reassurance and support, but he had already crossed a line today. Better to keep physical contact scarce.

— "Yeah. He's not the man I fell in love with, but I feel like I'm giving up on him. If I leave him, who is going to keep him afloat?"

— "Sometimes, Frances, people need to learn by themselves. Even children, yet it is a self appointed role to be a mother. But you were not meant to do this, as a companion"

He saw how his words impacted her, how doubts had taken root deep within. Was her guilt triggered by her boyfriend's pleas, or self-inflicted?

— "What happens to 'in sickness and in health'? To the support owed by spouses ?"

Good point, once more. Quoting marriage vows. She would have been a terrible adversary, in the history of holy wars, had she learnt theology. But he knew more proverbs than she did and had no reservations to use them.

— "The same as 'God helps those who help themselves'. You can't haul someone who doesn't want to be helped. You can't breathe for him either"

Silence settled in the car once more as she headed to the city centre to drop him off. Tristan pushed the pang of sadness away; he needed to keep his poise if he wanted her to hear him.

— "Thank you, Tristan. You always bring such clarity"

A strange wave of relief flooded him and the priest reclined in the passenger seat, true warmth permeating his features.

— "And I thank you the same, for I have learnt much from you. You are a very interesting young woman, Frances, and I have received from you just as much as I have given."

The dazzling smile she addressed him left him a little bereft.

— "Give the other cheek, then", she quipped.

Their chuckles mingled in the car.

**_Hope you enjoyed this stress-free moment, wherever you are in the world._**


	27. Chapter 27 - God part V

_**I hope you're all right in the mess of this year. A little something to make life better.**_

Frances sat, her brain floating, in front of Marie's statue. Her eyes hurt – too many tears those past days – but they were now dry. Relief was now slowly permeating through her cold frame, the soft voices that Father Tristan always programmed to float in the church undoing the knots in her stomach. Her shoulders sagged; no need to be strong, now. Here, she could trust Marie to watch over her. There was no family to force her to keep a façade, no friends to watch her, no teachers with silly expectations.

Father Tristan seemed busy, she had seen his frock billowing in a corner of the church, going to and fro. She didn't mind; his presence, even from a distance, was a balm to her wounded heart. And when, at last, his voice echoed in the distance, Frances wondered if she would melt into a puddle altogether. She had never felt this defeated, even the first time she had cried her eyes out in honor of her grandmother. A warm hand engulfed her icy skin, startling her. It took her a few seconds to be able to focus and realized that Father Tristan was kneeling in front of her.

— "What is wrong, Frances ?"

The words would not come, and she closed her eyes tightly.

— "Are you ill ?"

His voice was urgent from worry; or maybe he just needed to be on his way. Whispers across the altar told her something was being prepared. Yes, he didn't have time, so she cut the chase.

— "We fought. I left. He's been trying to call me the past few days, says he's sorry."

The resumé was pretty straightforward; no need to name the culprit, Father Tristan already knew. His eyes softened, his thumb tracing a circle across her skin before he let go. Cold creeped instantly into her frame, the warmth of his presence forgotten as she shivered on the bench. Her heart was in shambles, aching in a strange way and she didn't know what to do. It should have torn her in half to throw this relationship through the window. Should have crippled her with pain. Yet… it only brought relief and confusion. Emptiness and guilt. And lot of regrets.

Father Tristan didn't sit beside her, for another was calling him. Standing tall, he addressed the man in clipped tone.

— "I will be with you shortly", he told the man through clenched teeth.

And she wondered if the muscles of his jaw were always so tense. Then he turned to her, molten gold weaved in the patterns of his hazel eyes.

— "You need rest, Frances. And a hot bath. I cannot speak now, but I can cook dinner for you tomorrow"

Her eyebrows climbed high upon her forehead; he was crossing the line again for her sake.

— "You don't have to"

— "No, I don't", he confirmed.

— "I don't want you to be my therapist", she whispered.

— "I will be your friend, then."

The tone of his voice brooked no argument, and Frances relented, hope blooming in her chest.

— "Until then, you need to take care of yourself. Everything will be allright"

It was his smooth voice that followed her home, the reassurance seeping into her tired bones like a benevolent wave. His tender expression, engraved in her memory, that gave her the energy to survive the next day. The eagerness of being cared for by an incredible person that brought her to enjoy her scalding bath the next evening so that, when she entered the church at seven, she was already feeling much more confident. Just a few words, the barest of touches, and universal love written all over his face. What miracles could Father Tristan muster !

He was waiting for her, already dressed in casual clothes, except for the traditional collar. 'To be visible, should anyone need a priest'. She could only bow to his dedication; several times in the past, people had reached for him in the streets. It went from an impromptu confession to help going to the hospital. Today, there were no interruption as they walked down the main pedestrian street. Like a celebrity with no renown features; people would stare as he passed because of his ordination.

— "You look better", he said, his eyes roaming her face.

She gave him a soft smile, her legs pumping to keep in stride with him.

— "Yes. I had some time with myself, it helped a lot. And so did your words, yesterday"

— "I am sorry I couldn't…", he started.

— "Don't. I'm the one popping up unannounced. I don't expect you to be available at my whims"

Father Tristan gave her a long, thoughtful look.

— "We had an encounter with a choir yesterday and nothing was quite ready to welcome them"

That news caused her to regret her earlier state altogether; she would have loved to hear live music in his church.

— "Oh, why didn't you tell me ?"

— "You weren't quite in shape for a concert, Frances. And to be honest, I knew they would be pretty bad"

An unexpected chuckle escaped the young woman's lips, the weight upon her chest lifting slightly. Despite the cold weather – march was upon them, but winter lingered – she felt a little warmer inside.

— "Are you sure about hosting me, Father ? I fear I'm not going to be the best of company"

— "If you don't mind chopping vegetables, I'll be happy to share my dinner with you"

They were both avoiding the subject, both content to be reunited after this February break. For a moment, Frances didn't even think about the fiasco of those past holidays, or her not so clear celibate status. For days now, she had wracked her brain to decide what to do, falling short. Yes, I'm calling back. No, he can go to hell. Damn, you're a bitch. No, I need to let go, it is called self-preservation. A quick encounter with her best friend at home had brought a little relief, but not much clarity. A SMS sent to HIM, stating that she needed time to process it all.

For the moment, though, she was perfectly content to follow her priest-friend to the last floor of an old building, the lodging from the diocese. At is was, Father Tristan didn't make a lot of money, but his room was provided for. It even included a little kitchen, which he was grateful for. His rooms were simple, a shelf filled with books separated his bed from the kitchen table. Well groomed, and minimalist. Frances wasn't even sure he had cleaned for her sake; the man was nothing if not organized.

Without so much of a word regarding her predicament, he extracted salad, onions and chicken from the fridge. He gave her a knife, asking her to work on the vegetables while the meat sizzled in a saucepan. It was so peaceful, a domestic Tristan working in the kitchen while she acted as sous-chef, talking about the things he'd done and seen during his break. With his simple shirt and pants, he could almost pass for an ordinary man. Except that there was nothing ordinary about him. Neither the way he cared for his food at the moment, nor the way he cared for people in general. Such a good man, keeping to the simple pleasures in life and bringing the best out of it.

Where her boyfriend tended to kick her out of the kitchen when he cooked, Frances found that her coordination with Father Tristan was puzzling. There were no words needed, all things setting into place naturally. Soon, they were sharing a delicious dish of salad with roasted chicken, the sauce created by Tristan just a reduction of chicken sap deglazed with lemon and cream. It complimented the lively greenery with softness and Frances swore to ask the recipe. She was so going to try that at home !

— "This is delicious", she moaned, stuffing a piece of tender chicken in her mouth.

He gave her a fond smile, digging into his plate heartily.

— "I am glad you like it. Simple things, as you see"

— "Yes, but the very best. I tend to overcook chicken, so you'll have to teach me"

— "It will be my pleasure"

This statement surprised her; how many times was he planning to cross the line ? Still, she wasn't about to complain for his presence brought her much solace; God knew she needed it! Once the dish was discarded, Father Tristan proceeded to heat some water for an herbal tea while he instructed her where to find desert. A little pink box, stacked in the fridge, revealed a set of mouthwatering chocolate cakes. A wide smile split her face as she set two little plates on the diminutive table. Bless Tristan for his sweet tooth; between God and chocolate, she sure had a guardian angel by her side this night. Little by little, hope slowly crept into her bones, hope that everything could be allright in the end.

— "Mmm, you certainly how to talk to women", she purred, setting the cakes upon the diminutive table.

Father Tristan blinked before a smirk lifted the corner of his lips.

— "Not even close, but to you, I do know"

Warmth flooded her chest as they settled with cake and herbal tea. Spoonful after spoonful, Frances engulfed the fantastic mousse, letting the strong chocolate coat her tongue until the cake was but a memory. The mood seemed to shift then. Was it her imagination, or … ? When Father Tristan's smooth voice rose, she knew she wasn't mistaken.

— "So, what happened?"

Yup, not her imagination. And had stress not invaded her bloodstream once more, Frances would have marveled at how adept she was at reading his moods. Setting her spoon upon the now empty plate, she sighed.

— "Something stupid, about responsibilities and such. Speaking about the future, and crushing it at the same time."

She didn't make much sense, really, but Tristan's unwavering gaze encouraged her to continue.

— "I'll spare you the details. I'm just fed up with always coming in second or third place. After we fought, he remained silent for two days, then he started calling and leaving messages on my voicemail. I've erased most of them before hearing them, it just polluted my ability to think and loaded it with guilt"

— "Have you talked to him yet ?", he asked seriously.

Frances shook her head, crushing shame overwhelming her frame. She was such a coward.

— "No. I just didn't know what to do. I was so angry at first, I wanted to throw it all away"

— "And now ?"

There was no judgement in his voice, only plain acceptance of her limits that caused her to feel sturdier. Her brain kicked in, exploring every fiber of herself, shedding light in places she had refused to linger. Her heart, for one. The status of her feelings were reflected so plain, so easily that it surprised her.

— "And now… Now that anger is gone, and that I have time to reflect upon things… I still want to"

Father Tristan took a sip of his herbal tea, encouraging her to do the same. The soft fragrance filled her nose, along with another one she was less familiar with.

— "What's in there?", she asked, wondering why the smell was so soothing to her senses.

— "Chamomille, orange blossom water and honey. So, what has changed ?"

A small smile crept upon her lips; of course, he refused to allow her to distract him. Since it was for her sake, the young woman only dipped her head as she looked for the right words.

— "For one, you taught me to respect myself. That I was allowed to be spoken to like an adult, not yelled at. And there's this relief as well that puzzles me. As if an immense burden was lifted from my shoulders"

His eyes were smoldering ambers, boring holes into her. So intense that she nearly blushed at the attention. Then he seemed to snap out of his haze and he reclined against his seat.

— "This relationship was weighting you down", he eventually said.

And the statement settled like a certainty.

— "Yes", she breathed.

Air left her lungs in a surprised oof; once more, he brought clarity when she so desperately needed it. Father Tristan remained silent, choosing instead to drink a little more of the soothing liquid. With his simple dark jumper upon the open collar, he seemed so casual, so reassuring. So domestic. Welcoming. So much that Frances dared voicing thoughts that would have filled her with shame if not for his strong presence beside her.

— "Now that I have found my freedom again, I don't want to go back to chains. I feel guilty to let him go, I have some affection for him, we have history, you know. But I still feel better on my own"

Frances' breath itched then, wondering what his answer would be, berating herself for putting too much stock into his opinion. After all, she was the only one who could decide what was right for her… still, his acceptance meant so much. And he bestowed him without a second though, dismissing her shame with the barest tilt of his hand.

— "It is understandable. It is a great burden to try and haul another like this, too great for any human, let alone someone who has to handle so much pressure already."

Tears welled in her eyes and Frances dipped her head for a precious second, trying to blink them away.

— "Have you spoken with your friends ?", he gently asked.

How could she not be grateful, when he tried to distract her from her aches ? With a sniffle, the young woman regained composure.

— "My best friend, at home, but she's… particular with her relationships."

Father Tristan's raised eyebrows above the rim of his cup told her she would have to elaborate. But not now. Now, another question rose in her mind; why had she not spoken to them yet ?

— "I am at loss, Tristan. Here in school, I am afraid of the consequences. I don't want anyone to think I am available. I'm not, and I don't want to handle that kind of pressure yet."

Father Tristan set his mug on the table, his lips pursed.

— "Have you been solicited much?"

And the words felt like gravel in his mouth. Frances nibbled on her lower lip, avoiding his eyes.

— "I, uh. I have considered your words at length about friendship and flirting. The signs are there. Friends that want to be out of the friend zone, you know ? I was so entranced by my own boyfriend that I didn't even see it"

Frances shivered; why did it seem so cold suddenly ?

— "Do you think many of your friends might make an attempt ?", he asked without emotion.

— "One and a half ?", she chanced with a shy smile.

Tristan smirked at her attempt at levity. She truly was a scientific through and through, and underestimated her influence. Deep down, though, it bothered him. Too much. Way too much. Couldn't they see, those stupid young men, how out of their league she was ? Frances deserved the world… and so much more. And somehow, it made him slightly bitter to know that he couldn't keep her by his side and chose a man worthy to be her companion. So it was with aggravation that he sighed.

— "The throes of being a beautiful woman"

His judgment hurt, causing a frown to mar her face as she retaliated.

— "I'm not that temptress they speak of in the bible. Never will be. I don't dress like a piece of meat, don't flirt, I try to give clear signals, people just don't want to understand it."

The rise of her voice caused him to backpedal at once. His hand lifted in the universal gesture of peace, and he cursed the table, albeit small, that separated them. An indispensable object that prevented him from reaching out.

— "Don't be upset, that's not what I meant."

Frances froze, eyeing him suspiciously before she sagged in her chair. Did she realize how precious it was to meet someone that didn't always assume you meant to disparage ? Someone who could think things over before reacting rashly or lashing out ? He had found plenty in church, but his memories of young women back then were tremendously different.

— "What did you mean then ?"

— "That men tend to be stupid", he deadpanned.

Her lower lip was caught again between her teeth and he longed to yank it out, only to salvage the poor appendage from further abuse.

— "So I should be cold and heartless ? Refrain from trying to make friends ?"

Tristan sighed then; she looked so defeated. So weary. Such a shame to diminish her good disposition when she was a delight. Like an angel roaming the earth, pushed to protect herself and hide her inner light.

— "It would be a crime. Remain the way you are. They will just have to learn."

His words seemed to reach her, for her warm chocolate eyes sent him waves of gratefulness.

— "Is it tedious, you know, to maintain distance with people I would like to be friends with"

— "Perhaps it would be easier if you had more female friends ?"

She nodded absently.

— "I used to have some, it didn't end so well. I've been wary of female companionship ever since, and have trouble bonding with them. But I'm trying. I think I have found a trustworthy one in school. I just need time to open up again"

Tristan was touched by the trust she placed in him but didn't know how to express it. She laid bare her past hurts and history for him to judge and dispose without a second thought; a proof that he was worth collecting her confession. And if plenty of parishionners did it every day, it didn't feel the same. Perhaps because she had not been raised a catholic, or wasn't part of his parish… Perhaps… because she was different, and meant something else to him… Perhaps…

— "Do you truly find me beautiful ?, she eventually asked.

Was she fishing for compliment now ? Given her current predicament, he couldn't blame her yet… it didn't sit well with him. So it was with a clipped tone that he responded.

— "You don't need me to tell you. You must have heard it before."

Frances physically recoiled at once, her eyes misting over. A pang of regret pinched his heart and Tristan breathed out. Stupid, stupid defenses !

— "I'm sorry, Frances. I just assumed… you should know about it"

His smooth voice, soothing, was enough to appease her.

— "Actually, not so much. Well, my boyfriend used to say so, but I though he was in love so it doesn't count."

— "You can't be serious", he blurted out.

How could she ignore the beauty of her high cheekbones and almond eyes ? The nobility of her posture, the entrancing dance of her very long hair ? The sensuality of those rosy lips that she mistreated so often ? True, she wasn't those classic beauties from magazines with their sharp features and snobbish gaze. But her charm was unmatched, enhanced by her gentle disposition and the warmth of her gaze.

— "I wasn't in the 'beautiful' bunch with my female friends, people flirted with them, not with me. I was the side kick"

Tristan watched her, incredulous, barely keeping his mouth from gaping open. Therein lied the issue with female friends; she had probably hung about a set of school princesses who tried to keep her subdued as her personality – and her beauty - grew. The puzzle of Frances was becoming a clear picture now; since she always thought the best of others, she was prone to being manipulated by people who wanted to keep her under their thrall. Hence her sense of freedom now that her boyfriend was becoming an 'ex'. Hence the reason why she had trouble trusting people now.

— "Frances. You push away flirting attempts away very effectively. You're not interested, and men will catch on that, turning to a more…er… open girl"

He nearly blushed at those words; Tristan did understand how the world worked, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Frances, for her part, seemed to consider his words and come to the same conclusion.

— "Flirting is just another lie. It's so false."

— "Yes. I can't believe women fall for it"

— "Neither do it. It's like this guy in school, he comes to me and asks me what underwear I am wearing, I hate it"

Tristan's chair clanked on the floor as he abruptly stood.

— "WHAT ?", he bellowed. "What is that scum asking ?"

Frances froze, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute. Before her stood Father Tristan in his full wrath, his eyes fierce, ready to lay waste on any battlefield. And if she'd caught a glimpse of how dangerous he could be, she was now positive that something truly terrifying would happen to anyone opposing him right now.

He stood, livid, in the studio and the walls seemed too small to enclose his raw power. Frances pushed her chair back slowly, standing on wobbly legs, approaching him as if he was a wild animal. Her presence caused him to blink, his voice sounding nearly deformed from the clenching of his jaw.

— "You must denounce that man at once, Frances. This is abuse."

Her shoulders tense, the young woman lifted her hands.

— "Yeah. I know. You're not the first one who said so. I tried to push him away a few times, but he doesn't want to understand. It's not a big deal, I will handle it."

Oops, wrong words. Tristan glared now. The simmering anger radiated so strongly that she cursed herself for letting the matter rest.

— "Your are sexually harassed Frances. It is a big deal… I'll find this young man and believe me, he will understand!"

She reached for his hand without thinking, causing his body to still. The warmth of his fingers barely registered before she let go, as if scalded.

— "Don't ! I'll handle it. Ok ? If he keeps bothering me, I'll speak to the director. I just had so much on my plate until now, I wasn't ready with another battle"

For a long moment, Father Tristan considered her, his eyes relentless. Then, at last, his posture relaxed slightly.

— "Very well. But you cannot accept this anymore, Frances"

A long, heavy breath passed her lips at the storm receded in his eyes and the priest wondered if he had not frightened her. Where did that anger come from to take hold of him so easily ? How long since his emotions had betrayed him, throwing control to the wind ? It was dangerous ground indeed he was treading, all for the sake of Frances' safety. He should have walked away from her; she endangered his poise and his vows. Yet, he couldn't let her go. She was so innocent, so brilliant, so gentle… the wolves of reality would eat her alive, right ?

For the moment, she still faced him, her features defeated. Exhausted, even.

— "I had this fantasy where people connected with each other because of inner beauty. Those guys, I don't think they know me, really, they do not see who I am."

— "Yes, young men then to do that. They only see what they want to see"

She didn't question how he knew that, intimately, for running after the wrong girl as a youngster. All of it leading to that fateful street fight. Leading him here.

— "If I am to be loved, I want to be loved for who am I, not what I look like. And if that person finds me beautiful, then all the better"

Such wisdom… if only all youngsters were like her, the world would be a better place. Yet, speaking of a future with another made him uneasy once more. So it was with faked detachement that he asked:

— "Do you long to be loved once more ? To marry the right person ?"

— "Not now. I mean. It is great to be loved, but I'd rather be alone and happy than with the wrong person. I'm not afraid to be alone, I find beauty in the world on my own. My heart is scorched right now, I need time with myself to even consider someone else. Later… much later. Then that day, you can marry us in your church, right ?"

Her tirade reached him in the most unexpected way; both relief and dread seized him. Never before had he been so happy to hear a woman swear celibacy… for a while, at least. But to marry her to her beloved, to a good man… The thought made him shudder. No one would ever be good enough for her.

— "Good", he said.

Her eyebrows rose to the sky.

— "Good ?"

Tristan nodded, unable to formulate anything more elaborate lest he betrayed the emotions lurking in the recesses of his heart.

— "You know. I'm perplexed", she eventually said.

Was she going to call him on his bluff ? Tristan tensed, realizing how close she was. He could even smell her, for God's sake ! Summoning his best poker face, the priest responded evenly.

— "How so ?"

Frances walked to the full-length mirror fixed upon his entrance wardrobe, eyes wide as she took in her appearance. Her fingers prodded her cheekbones, then her eyebrow curiously as she told him:

— "I've seen myself everyday for ages, hated my nose as a child"

She poked the little button nose that gave her this adorable mischievous look.

— "Hated the color of my eyes all the same because of the stupid song of elementary school. I know I'm not bad looking; I've got an efficient, equilibrated body and face without major flaws. But beautiful… never"

Tristan couldn't resist coming to her side, his tall frame dwarfing hers as his chest nearly touched her back. She was so close… mesmerizing, and unattainable. Not by fault of hers, either. His vows were too important, allowing him to toe upon the line, but not cross it. Yet, his hand longed to land upon her shoulder. His body froze to prevent it from happening. Frances turned to him, lifting her face to look into his eyes. His breath caught; they were but a breath away. From up close, he could see how her warm chocolate eyes caught the light, sending tiny stars of golden strings radiating from the center. Flustered, Frances chose to face the mirror instead, watching them both in his cramped entrance.

— "You're way, way better than that", Tristan breathed. "Someday, you will see."

Her little frame shuddered, a blush creeping over her cheeks as Tristan took a step back to rein his beating heart. Disappointment caught him before he could back away; he had never given thought to what he missed until then. The touch of a woman, her warm breath caressing his cheek, soft skin under his fingers. Those sensations were said to be sent by the devil. The demon, using womanly wiles to sway him from the righteous path.

— "Thank you", she whispered.

And he felt like crushing her to his chest, just to hear her heart beating against his own, to feel her warmth engulfing him. And he hated that he was so weak… too weak to follow the path of God without stumbling along the way.

— "It means a lot to me coming from…"

Anger replaced disappointment and he walked away swiftly.

— "A man that can't have a woman ? A priest ?"

— "No, I didn't mean…"

But he was unexpectedly too far gone to hear her.

— "We're still men, you know !"

Frances' face fell then, her eyes regretful. Tristan caught his breath, realizing how riled up he was. What was she doing to him ? He needed to throw her out, needed to… But her voice came, gentle, pleading and his anger just died like a fire under a benevolent wave of warm water.

— "No! No. A man whose spirituality is higher than most. I trust you, Tristan. Your opinion means the world to me"

The priest nearly crashed upon the table, his shaking hand seeking the wood to ground him into reality. She wasn't responsible for his feelings, had not played him, nor pressured him. It was unfair to throw his anger to her face when she was barely recovered from her recent break up. Exhaling slowly, Tristan straightened once more.

— "Sorry. I get that a lot, I should have known this isn't what you meant."

What an idiot he was being ! His anger fuelled by the earlier revelation of sexual harassment, his feelings all over the place.

— "I get it. We're both a little strained, perhaps I should go now", she said, a little unsure.

Frances, being the sensitive woman she was, understood that her presence hurt him and she wanted to flee. It would have been reasonable to put more distance, yet so selfish. She needed him, needed that unwavering rock in her life right now. So instead, he stood to his full height and took a deep breath.

— "How about I show you how to sublimate it ? It will help me as well, this colleague of yours put me in an awful mood."

All tension left the room at once as she considered his offer. The she nodded – accepting his peace offering - and Tristan pushed the table aside to make a little space.

— "I'll show you the routine, then you can follow me"

And, standing in front of her, Tristan chose an easy Tai-Chi kata that would benefit them both. At first, she eyed him, watching the way he moved, fluid, like water running to the sea. Then she spread her legs apart just like his, and stared following, her face set in concentration. She adapted easily, mimicking his every movement, following his breathing and he was once more surprised on how fast she could learn. Yet, she was still a bit stiff; perhaps a secondary effect of learning Aikido for Japanese martial arts tended to be more rigid. Still, she had not forgotten the principles of the 'chi' coming from her center. Little by little, he saw how she grounded herself, how her hands and legs, graceful, followed his lead. How she naturally adapted, correcting herself, her presence gaining in intensity as she worked. Lost in the art, her body and soul thrown in the routine.

He allowed his own mind to get soothed, to detach his attention from her, knowing she would follow. Retreating into himself, finding this light that burnt bright in his center. His energy, his liferoce, his faith altogether mingled. Hope bloomed in his chest once more, reassuring him that he was a good man, that his choices were not in the least despicable. That every single step he took was followed by God's benevolent gaze, blessed. That the presence of the woman beside him wasn't a temptation from the Devil, but a present from the almighty in his life.

**_As usual, please leave a review if you enjoyed this. Cheers !_**


	28. Chapter 28 - God Part VI

_**Buckle up for some heartache. I seem to be in the mood.**_

Frances was descending the steps of the amphitheatre when a pause in her discussion with Thomas – a good friend who DIDN'T want to go out with her – caused her ears to overhear a strange conversation. A few steps before her, Sarah, always a little boisterous, was talking to a fellow student.

— "I swear, he looked exactly like Neo, storming out of the Director's office as if he was going to take Agent Smith"

Her partner chuckled, his long-disarrayed hair swishing left and right in amusement.

— "You've seen Keanu Reeves?"

— "No, silly. But the long coat, the collar and the stomping were pretty close."

— "The collar? You mean it was a priest?"

Frances missed a step then, catching the railing at the latest moment. Thomas's "careful" was lost in the recesses of her mind as her ear strained to hear the conversation. Had a priest ever set foot in this school? Could it be any other than Tristan… Father Tristan?

— "Nah, he was far too good-looking to be a priest," Sarah chipped eagerly.

Any doubt fled her mind as Frances' blood boiled, nearly bursting out, "they are men as well, you know!" Oblivious that those very same words came from Tristan's mouth directly. Trust Sarah, notorious curvy beauty of loose morals, to point out Tristan's attractiveness. Yet, Frances had never lingered on it because of his calling. The man was off limits in any possible way; speaking of his physique seemed … disrespectful.

— "White collar and dark shirt?" Sarah's friend asked as they passed the doors.

— "Yep."

— "Definitely a priest."

— "OK. Well, this one is very yummy. I wouldn't mind putting him in my bed."

Frances' fist clenched and she was happy that Thomas always knew when to keep silent and when to engage in conversation. A precious colleague, something rare in this crazy school.

— "Chill, that's never going to happen"

'Definitely. I'd kill your first' Frances thought, only seeking to preserve Father Tristan from unwanted attention. She doubted that he would react anyway if Sarah threw herself at his feet.

— "So, got any idea what he was doing here?" Sarah's friend asked.

Frances snorted then. 'Oh I might have an idea, and said priest is going to get an earful…' She didn't have to wait long for her suspicions to be confirmed.

The very same afternoon, the director showed up in the amphitheatre with a chilling discourse. Giving them a hard stare, especially to young men – which amounted to half the promotion – he stated loud and clear:

— "It has come to my knowledge that sexual harassment has been occurring in this school. Be it with unwanted gestures or disrespectful words, I WILL NOT tolerate this behaviour anymore. I encourage all the students that are being harassed to come to me, and there will be repercussions. Exclusion, for one, and the matter will be taken to the authorities. You are to be engineers, this is not acceptable, in school, or in the future line of your work. Mind my words."

In the silence that followed the director's speech, Frances caught sight of the student that had been constantly nagging her. 'Are you wearing a throng?', he sometimes asked. 'Can you lift up your skirt for me?' All those words hit her back, and she glared at him, boring holes into his skull. The young man swallowed audibly, his head bowed in shame. There, it seemed that the warning had had the desired effect. By her side, Thomas shifted closer to murmur:

— "It's good that you finally talked."

Frances nodded, glad for the support. And quite amazed, truthfully, by Tristan's gall. An indirect blow to the school, probably laden with a subtle threat to speak to the authorities, had done the trick. And she didn't doubt one minute that he had summoned all his impressive presence to get the director to bow to his will. She understood, now, why Sarah had admired him from afar. She knew how anger could swirl around him, how very close to that Equilibrium ecclesiast he could seem, how very impressive in his wrath. By his action, he had created a safer place not only for her, but for the others just as well without fear or retaliation. Frances smirked. Very well played indeed. Father Tristan's intellect was up to par with his immense patience and wisdom.

Her thanks were conveyed by means of a cake, the very first one she had ever baked. Well, the second, because the first wasn't good enough and was plunged in chocolate milk for breakfast. The priest welcomed the treat with a satisfied smile, and mentioned in passing that he estimated its lifespan to 48 hours. Frances grinned; father Tristan was so easy to please.

With April came the traditional Easter break. And for the very first time, Frances delayed her departure to attend mass. She wanted to hear Father Tristan's sermon, to see for herself what a ceremony performed by an open-minded priest could be. To say that she was surprised was an understatement. Father Tristan beamed, up there. Leading choruses, speaking of the Christ's sacrifice, of tolerance and love. His smooth voice filled the church, like a caress to one's soul. They all felt it around her, his immense love for all good things in the world, seeping into her inner self as she coaxed the best of them with his words. Father Tristan was well loved, she was happy for him. They shared one last moment after mass before she packed her suitcase.

When she left for the break, heading to her parent's, Frances had no idea that she was saying goodbye for good. Maybe the toughest trial of her life.

The sound of boiling water echoed in the kitchen, lulling Frances out of her dreams. But she wasn't ready to awake yet, and slumbered for a moment more. Then another. Until probably thirty minutes had passed, and she kicked herself out of bed with a mighty yawn. The scent of her favourite tea – a girl's tea with wild strawberry that made her boyfriend laugh – reached her nose, and Frances slid into her pants and t-shirt to join him in the kitchen.

Bypassing the counter, she found him cooking on the stove. Strange, he seemed taller than she remembered, and his hair lighter than it used to be. She couldn't see the saucepan; eggs, probably, if her nose wasn't mistaken. She didn't mind much that he would awaken before she did for his cooking was always welcome. Smiling groggily, the young woman approached her boyfriend to circle his waist with her arms. She locked her hands in front of his stomach, inhaling the perfect scent of him, melting upon his back with delight. At once, one of his hands came to rest upon hers.

Frances sighed, her heart expanded, her chest filling with love. She was at peace. At home. Safe and happy, her whole being bursting with joy. And she never wanted to let go. For a moment, he didn't move; the eggs probably didn't need that much attention. Then, at last, she felt his right arm extend to put out the stove. Frances tightened her grip, burying her nose in his plain t-shirt. How she loved that smell. Masculine and faint at the same time, devoid of any perfume. Something purely him … the same smell that lingered on Father Tristan's frock…

Shock.

Frances opened her eyes, allowing the man to turn around.

She didn't even have to look at his face. The height, the colour of his hair, his smell. It was … him. Tristan.

How …?

Frances gasped, opening her eyes once more, alone in her bed. At home, in her childhood's room. A dream, just a dream. But a dream that conveyed a very impossible, chilling truth.

Shit.

1st of may.

It was after mass that Tristan's world shifted irremediably. He had not expected Frances to show up during the office, yet he had spotted her face in the third rank of the faithful. She wasn't looking at him when his eyes lingered, so he kept going, celebrating Joseph the worker's day.

He had missed her, much more than he wanted to admit, and wasn't looking forward to the long months of summer where she would leave before her third and final year. Then … she would be gone for good. Little did he know that what he feared was about to happen much sooner. And he wasn't ready. Her presence, her conversation, her questions had become a usual occurrence, and whenever he read a text, or wrote a sermon, she was never far from his mind. What would she say about this? What questions would it raise? Would she agree, disagree, or ignore this element altogether? What about this choice of carol, about the harmony?

Frances brightened each and every one of his thoughts, and he stole glances to her little bench every single day, eagerly awaiting for her return. So when mass was concluded and people trailed out, Father Tristan found himself impatient to find her. Yet, this was 1st of may, and many families lingered, wanting to converse with him. A tradition of the years past that he used to enjoy greatly. Father Tristan always wanted to know what happened in his parish, how people fared and who had come and gone, who had married and had children. Babies were baptised in this church, grew into lads and lasses, communiated here, married and were buried under his direction. The great circle of life, viewed from a very unique point of view. For he was but an outsider in those lives, the oil that helped people's gear to run smoothly. Today, though … he was torn between sharing news and retreating into his beloved church.

At last, no one seemed to call for his attention and he covered the distance to Marie's bench in less time than it took to sneeze. Frances sat, unmoving, her face pale. Dread seized his heart. Had anything happened to her? To her family? Was she sick? Had she fought again with her ex-boyfriend? Got back with him? When, at last, she registered his presence and turned her head to face him… Tristan gasped. Her eyes were so raw, pain written so plainly. Agony. The priest lost his countenance, sitting by her side with a sharp inhale, his hand lifting to unconsciously trace her cheekbone. His fingers tingled in warning.

This was wrong, so very wrong, but any second now, he felt she would be torn from his side. His heart lurched, the sense of foreboding even stronger.

— "Frances…", he whispered.

— "I … I came to say goodbye," she murmured, her hand coming to rest upon his.

The coldness of her skin worried him and he kicked himself to sever the contact between them. Mouth agape, hand falling into his lap, Tristan panicked. The priest was so far gone then, the man resurfacing with all its imperfections, its passion and anger swirling like demons.

— "Why? Are you leaving, are you sick?"

— "No. But I can't … come anymore."

Tristan swallowed thickly, wondering what might have happened for her to repudiate their friendship. It hurt her so badly, her eyes so very sad that he felt like weeping.

— "Tell me why you think so, Frances. There will be no judgement from me."

She shook her head vehemently, like a small child that refused to cry. What did she keep from him? What was so horrible, so despicable that she wouldn't dare telling him?

— "Do you not trust me?" he pleaded.

Her eyes lifted to find his, shock written plainly at the implication of his words.

— "I do," she said, eyebrows heavy with grief. "It is I who broke your trust"

His own brow furrowed; he didn't get it. Yet he wasn't ready to relent just now. Perhaps he would be able to help. Perhaps she could be reasoned with; he would not let her go without a fight.

— "How so?"

— "I can't… I can't Tristan."

The priest jumped to his feet, poise and calm forgotten and he swore. Him, a priest, in his church, SWORE! This was how far gone the idea to loose her sent him. Into the abyss, way beyond recognition, way beyond redemption.

— "Damn it woman! If I am to be deprived of your presence, I deserve to know why."

He was panting now, and a quick look around told him no one was here to witness his demise. His teeth clenched, his fists tightening by his side.

— "I deserve it, don't I?" he repeated, his voice broken.

Frances bit her lip, her eyes downcast. Several droplets caught the light if the candles as they fell from her face, landing upon the soft cloth of her skirt. One, two, a dozen tears. A stream of sadness that never ended until she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. His heart just couldn't take it, and he fell on his knees before her. Waiting to see if the enchantress would leave him with a gaping wound, never to be repaired, or at least grace him with an explanation. He couldn't touch her; he didn't want to.

— "Please"

He stayed there, kneeling on the hard stone floor, awaiting for Damocles' sword to fall upon his neck. And when at last, her sobs subsided, she reached for his hand; he allowed it. Her tiny fingers laced though his, still cold, but strong. Then, at last, she lifted her puffy eyes to him, plunging her gaze into his with such intensity that he lost his breath.

— "You deserve it, Tristan. You deserve the world. I love you."

— "So do I," he responded easily, hoping to appease her fears.

Somewhere deep within, his mind hoped she was just having a fit of hysteria. Making a mountain out of a rock. But the more he stared in her pain laced eyes, the more hope dwindled.

— "No. You don't understand," she rasped.

— "Then tell me," he commanded, fingers tightening around hers.

The young woman swallowed thickly; her whole body was shaking now.

— "I have fallen in love with you. Somewhere along the way, my heart has decided that… I do not want you to marry me with another, Tristan. I want, one day, to marry you."

Tristan gaped, the hard truth stunning him into oblivion. She loved him. A priest. A man who could never touch her, but longed to. A man who had devoted himself to God, leaving behind the earthly desires and need for a family, for his family was the church, and his love the almighty. A man that, now, kept her fingers in a strong grip because he knew that it was the very last time he could afford to touch them. A man whose heart broke, his last hope being that God would mend it anew. Frances sniffled, then retrieved a tissue out of her pocket, breaking their last contact altogether.

Tristan stood, his legs wobbly, as she dabbed her nose and addressed him once more.

— "I am angry at the church for denying you the right to love, and be loved. The right to get a family of your own."

Her words broke the dam; it hurt so badly to heart it plainly. To know that his choice, fifteen years ago, was made without even knowing what he had left behind. Her. The possibly to be a husband to a woman like her, to see her face in the morning, to fall asleep by her side. To support her every step of the way, and see their children be born out of her womb, their eyes and features a mingle of them both. Condemned, forever, to get news of the faithful on Sunday morning, to see their children grow up, and consider them his because he would never have his own. In response to the pain, his temper rose.

— "This is not a matter of denying, but of fulfilment in the path of God. Of commitment."

— "What about … Protestants?" she chanced, standing up to be level with him.

But she would never be as tall as he was. As imposing. And when he growled, she shrank even further into her lithe body.

— "Don't"

The order was clear and simple. Catholics and Protestants had fought over this for five centuries. It wasn't the best moment to fuel this fire. And despite her grief, Frances caught his meaning well, lifting her hands in surrender.

— "I'm sorry. You see. I broke our friendship."

— "What do you want, Frances?" he asked.

She seemed to mull over his words for a few seconds before answering truthfully.

— "I want you … to be happy. Whichever the path you choose. I respect your calling, this is why I must leave you in peace"

Frozen, Tristan watched her. He memorised the fine features he so cherished, the beauty of her almond shaped eyes, the fire of her hair before she would become but a memory. She let him, probably doing the same as her red-rimmed eyes never left him.

Until, at last, the time was up. They both felt it, the silent noise of a bond being severed.

— "Goodbye," she murmured.

Tristan's heart lurched so painfully that he reached for her, pulling her into him. His strong arms wound around her frame, his hand burying in her silky hair, the other crushing her waist against his tall frame. He couldn't breathe anymore, and neither could she. Still, she held tight, crushing herself against him. And for a moment, all was right in the world, their intertwined bodies heaving in the shared grief, their hearts beating in unison. Just the way their voices mingled whenever they sang "Adeste Fidelis" before the altar. Tristan's eyes lingered on the huge piece of marble, wondering how it would feel to face it on his wedding day rather than be the one to officiate. For a blessed moment, tension fled his body, the light of love replacing it in his heart. Only to be crushed cruelly. No. He couldn't let go of his calling.

The moment his arms gave some slack, Frances leapt out and fled, tears running down her cheeks. Bereft, Tristan panted in his own church. Had it always been so empty? The stone cold, despite the sun shining outside. The oxygen gone with her. Warmth crushed. A sudden wave of panic hit him, and Tristan's chest tightened. His long legs covered the distance before he could even decide to follow after her. He burst out of the church, coming out in bright sunlight that assaulted his eyes. He found her easily, she was walking bristly, the long trail of her hair on fire in the sunlight. Tristan ran until he caught up with her.

She looked horrible, tear tracks staining her lovely skin, her eyes swollen.

— "Give me time to process this," he fired.

— "What could it change, Tristan?"

— "Please. I need time. You have taken some before taking this decision, allow the same to me. Come back in a month from now."

The young woman shook her head vehemently. She knew it couldn't work, that their friendship was dead. And he knew she was being more reasonable than he, but for the first time in fifteen years, his feelings were out of control. Or rather, they were controlling him fully. He had never felt such despair, such a storm that threatened to pull him to his knees. Such pain. He needed a way out lest he lost himself.

— "Tristan … you know it won't…"

— "Only once, if only to say goodbye. Please"

This was as close as he would come to begging. He saw how his pleas broke her heart all over again as she nodded, and left him behind. He watched her go, his little angel, her steps faltering. But she kept on going, and he didn't listen to his instinct to run to her. It took a while before she was out of sight. And despite the sun and bird chirping, Tristan wondered if he would ever see the light again.

"You're not the first, neither the last one, Tristan,' echoed the voice of a more experienced man. A man he respected for his devotion to the church.

"You will overcome this hardship with the guidance of God"

"It is alright to doubt, we all have, at some point"

"The demon is tempting you, do not stray from the path."

An impossible choice with losses on both sides, Frances, or God's goodwill? It ate his heart. And his superior's words kept flooding him. Again, and again, like waves crashing upon a cliff, digging its hole little by little, digging the rock away. Just like that fossil beach she had shown him.

"You are young, fit as a fiddle, it is normal to experience such things"

"She is probably not the first nor the last."

Wrong. She was the first … he hoped she would be the last, for he never wanted to experience such pain again.

"Lust."

"It shall pass, all hurts heal with time"

"She is merely an addiction."

**Denial**. No, she didn't tempt him that way. Not yet. He had no fantasies other than holding her, and being by her side. Chaste love. Deep love, fed by everything he was. God's love.

It was different from marital love, right? Perhaps his superior was right, perhaps she was just a friend, after all, and the pain would pass.

But it didn't. Not yet. She populated his thoughts, his days and nights, his hopes and despairs. Yet, Tristan kept functioning. Like a machine whose faith was grinded like a cheese upon the grate. Tristan was a curious, educated man. He knew the stages of grief. Denial was not an option anymore; Frances had just put words upon the feeling they both experienced. She loved him, just as much as he loved her.

**Anger**. It had come swiftly, stronger that a tsunami, laden with guilt and incomprehension. Why couldn't she accept friendship? What did his heart betray him so? Why did God send her into his church, only to take her away? Why, why, why! He hated her for putting him I front of the inconsistency, for pointing the loneliness of his life. Hated life for ripping his heart out. Anger left just as suddenly as it had thundered in, with pieces of himself. As the wave retired from shore, Tristan was left to witness the destruction of his previously well-groomed heart. His life now looked like a beach with upturned trees, structures strewn everywhere, shambles of a past equilibrium that he would have to build anew.

**Bargaining** didn't come; he was too rational, too perceptive for this. Faith wasn't about striking a bargain with God. Faith was about believing in its almightiness, and accepting one's fate. Trusting that higher powers put in his path the ordeals that would make him a better man, knowing that HIS full support would aid him through.

But he couldn't feel it, this precious support that had led him for the past years. Every time he tried to connect, to pray, no matter if he sank to his knees or even laid on the floor, he couldn't feel the love of God flooding through his veins. Had he been abandoned, shunned because of his impure thoughts? Did his path lay elsewhere? Would he ever heal?

**Depression** hit him twice as hard, for he had no anger left to sustain him. Temper short, Father Tristan could only nod when people told him he looked a little sickly. Parishioners, well-wishers, people who cared about him telling him to rest. Food had no taste, life smelt like ashes, the light didn't warm him up anymore even though temperatures were rising. Sleepless nights and little food eventually won the game. It started with a little cough that spread into his lungs, fever followed, harsh, burning through him like the flame burnt the candle to the ground. He prayed, and prayed in his bed, hoping that this burning fire would, eventually, release his body. Passion, consuming him entirely, leaving behind a shell of man with no ability to love. In his delirium, Tristan tried to push away her beautiful smile, but she refused to relent. As the fire seized control of his mind, her slender fingers landed on his cheek, bringing such solace that he sighed. His half-lidded eyes spotted her form, lying beside him, her warm chocolate eyes melting as she took in his state. From up close, he could count the freckles upon her little nose. Her fingers grazed his cheekbone, then caressed his sweaty brow. A gentle gesture, over and over again, then eventually lulled him to sleep.

— "Rest, Tristan. Rest, my love," she whispered in his hear.

Fresh light flooded his chest, cooling down his burning body to allow deep sleep to overtake him. For the first time in days, Tristan's breathing deepened as he sank into the recessed of healing sleep.

When he eventually woke up more than 36 hours later, he expected **Acceptance** to settle in his heart. Sadness had been burnt away, anger evaporated, and denial reproved. So why did his heart ache all the same, longing for her touch, her embrace? Longing for the solace of her presence, the joy of her tingling laugh? The fire of her beautiful hair in the winter light?

Father Tristan resumed his duties, an empty shell with short breath and painful muscles. And still, God refused to flood him with his light. Oh, he could feel it, just at bay, caressing the frock upon his back, enveloping him when he prayed. Yet, it refused to settle in his heart. Tai Chi routines helped him build his strength again; it silenced his running thoughts for a blessed moment.

And in his mind kept returning to that fated moment when, in four days from now, he would have to say Goodbye for real. For eternity. To wish her well on the path that could take her away from him.

Four days.

Three days.

Tristan knelt before the altar, his heart scorched, begging for a sign. Anything. 'Please, help me, point me in the right direction,' he whispered, hands joined in prayer, his heart struggling to open to God once more. Once more, the almighty remained silent, and Tristan exited the church, defeated. What had he done, to deserve such scorn?

Father Tristan walked home, his collar indicating to anyone around that he was available. Yet his features were harsh, closed off. His eyes firmly set on the ground until a slight breeze compelled him to look up. A misstep nearly sent him tumbling down the floor. On the other side of the pedestrian street, behind the cables of the tramway walked Frances with a bunch of friends. They surrounded her, chatting merrily. She responded in kind, her lips slightly lifted, as if to laugh. But the merry expression never came, and when their attention shifted to something else, a frown marred her face once more.

Tristan's heart clenched, his chest constricting painfully. She was there, fifteen metres from him, yet so far away. But he couldn't help detailing her features, drinking in the sight of her. She seemed thinner, paler somehow. Her eyes dull, devoid of joy. In agony, just like he was. For a blessed moment, he considered crossing the street and winding his arms around her to never let go. The thought was enough to lift his mood, his blood running stronger in his veins.

Reality crashed into him like a freight train. He couldn't. His gaze dropped to the cold concrete at his feet. If he took this very simple step back … renewed their acquaintance once more, the consequences would be dire. Like an addiction, he would have to suffer through all of it over again. Wouldn't he? The priest passed his tongue over his upper lip, considering his options.

A tramway was fast approaching, its typical grating sound coming from the east. The machine would shield her from him in just a moment. One last look. Just one, and he would go. When Tristan lifted his gaze, he was surprised to meet her eyes. Twenty or so feet away, Frances had stopped dead in her tracks, watching him. There was so much sadness in her gaze, such despair that it stole his breath away. An eternity passed as they connected, their hearts beating in unison once more, both clenching in pain. This emptiness was so crippling, too overwhelming that he prayed for the ground to swallow him whole.

The sound of the tramway grew stronger, and Frances put a hand above her heart, bowing her head to him. A token of undying love. The proof that her heart belonged to him. Then the long, noisy machine hid her from view. Tristan took a deep, shuddering breath, rooted to the spot. When the tramway left, all he could see what the fiery braid dancing upon her back.

He had asked for a sign … after all.

**_You know the drill. Review if you liked it, review if you didn't. But most of all, tell me why !_**


	29. Chapter 29 - God Part VII

**_Hey Koba, so nice to hear from you. Yes, it is a shitty year and the pandemia has made things a little crazy._**

**_I hope you won't be disappointed about this next chapter because I'm actually not finished with this. I understand your reluctance, though, because I had the same one about putting Tristan in a cloth._**

**_I love your image, it will definitely stick heheh. The knife stuck on the priest' collar :D Thanks for putting a smile on my face._**

She was sitting upon Marie's bench, dejected. Neither the oak door, nor the familiar setting of church had managed to lift her spirits.

Strangely, the soothing voices were gone.

Frances shifted, shuddering in the coolness of the church. The sun shone outside, the temperature had risen to announce summer. But here, inside, everything felt so cold. Perhaps because of the weight she had lost. Frances had walked for miles, days, hours in search of solace. It didn't increase her appetite – she wasn't eating much, expect for sugar. It didn't help her sleep – her dreams plagued her, replaying over and over again the gentle smile she so adored. He was there, everywhere. His soothing presence, his faint smell, his sparkling eyes. The sharp canines that only appeared when his amusement showed fully.

Days had refused to blurr together, every single f…#%! moment dragging on for eternity. Time had not been kind; her feelings didn't abate. Everything she did, every single though revolved around Tristan. So desperately in love. So much that she'd rather see him happy than with her; just like the tenth doctor Who. And so, honouring his request, she came to say goodbye one last time. To seal the deal, as they said. Perhaps, then, she would be able to go into mourning properly. Her heart, already, felt so empty that she doubted it still beat.

A shadow passed in front of the altar. Frances's head snapped aside to spot him. What she saw felt like a stab in her already scorched heart. For the man, clad in full frock, that was lighting the candles was stout and dark haired; a priest she had never seen before. No Father Tristan.

He was gone… And despite the sadness, Frances had not been prepared for his absence. Not just yet. For as long as this moment still existed in her heart, the 1st of June, her mind had refused to accept the obvious. But now… She realized how broken she was without him. Her soul howled in pain, her spirit pleading the almighty for another hour, another minute, another second of his bright presence. Shrinking upon the bench, Frances' eyes welled with tears. She couldn't live without him; she had tried, but it just didn't work. She promised to whomever was watching over there that she would repress those silly romantic notions if she could only get him back as a friend. Just a friend. An acquaintance. The sun that shone brightly upon her thoughts.

Was anyone listening to her pleas ?

Perhaps, yes.

Someone sat by her side, but she was too far gone in her grief to notice. Then, a warm hand engulfed hers, familiar. Her skin started singing, blood rushing to her heart as a gentle kiss was bestowed upon the naked skin of her palm. Frances' breath itched, and she turned, stunned, to the man that sat beside her.

Tristan was there, his strong presence mesmerizing, soothing her. There was no collar upon his neck, no frock, only a set of slacks and a long sleeve shirt of white. An angel. His other hand covered the first one, and he gave her a sad smile. Yet, his eyes were dancing with repressed feelings.

— "I broke my vow. I am no longer a priest"

His words, quietly murmured, horrified her as much as it enchanted her. Had God heard her pleas, giving them a chance at happiness ?

— "Tristan…", she whispered.

— "You are my Isolde, Frances. I just couldn't go on without you"

Joy and fear hit her, mingling like a tornado.

— "I can't ask you to…"

— "You didn't.", he cut in without an ounce of hesitation. "This is my choice"

The walls that had kept her functioning melted then; the emotion welled up, overflowing without a warning, and all the past hurts, the misery of this month burst forth. Frances hid her face in her hands and started sobbing earnestly. By her side, Tristan only dragged her to his side, his anchoring presence keeping her sane as she wept. His arm snaked around her shoulders, pulling her against his sturdy frame as he waited for the grief to evacuate. His own tears were shed before Marie, the blessed soul that had witnessed their coming together. Before God, in his former church where another officiated in his stead now.

It was a heartbreaking goodbye to this place, this house where so much of his heart had been poured. To Frances, and to his parishioners. This time, he was the one who had taken time to weight his decision, and say goodbye. Three days, to roam the empty corridors of the church, to set things right before he was kicked out unceremoniously. Three full days where his mind had jumped from pillar to post, rushing into the many things that would be needed in his new life, revisiting past events that had led him here. The past fifteen years of his life. But he didn't loose sight of his goal.

His superior had been disappointed. Angry even. But Tristan had held fast, and given the man's disturbing words, understood that he had never loved, truly, any other than God to tell such inanities. His arm around her, the woman that held his heart, felt so natural. And even if his teachings screamed at him to flee human contact – it would take a while, for him, to overcome the reflex to shy away from touch - Tristan couldn't help but relish in the sense of rightfulness.

As Frances' cried her heart out against him, he felt proud to be her rock. Entitled to protect her, to care for her. To love her. It was the most beautiful feeling in the world, just as powerful as his love for God. Eventually, her sobs quieted, and she straightened on the bench.

— "Where do you go from here, Tristan?"

You. Not we. A gentle smile lifted the corner of her lips; trust her to think of him in the first place.

— "I have no idea. For fifteen years I was a priest. I will figure it out."

Her eyes watched him, awe and fear mingled, and he could read them as easily as he read a book in latin. She was amazed by his courage, at his resilience.

— "Will you not resent me?", she asked meekly.

A disturbing question that made a lot of sense; blessed be her insightfulness. Not that he could change his mind anyway; the church wouldn't take him back if he wanted to. Yet, he had to tell her how he viewed things.

— "No. If my hearts steers clear of this path, who am I to question God's judgment? I have given it a lot of thought. Maybe my destiny is to love differently. And you are my own little angel."

Astonished, Tristan realized it was as close to a blaspheme as he would ever get. But he didn't resent her from opening his heart and mind. So, taking in her awed features, he tugged at her hand. Frances stood, her eyes roaming over Marie's statue, at first, then the church itself. Lingering on the altar when they had both sung, watching the corridors where he used to appear, eyeing the chair, up there, where he had climbed on easter mass. Saying goodbye just as well.

They walked, together, to the exit. Slow steps, a hand on the oak door, then in full sunlight. The heat engulfed them at they stood, both stunned, before the church. Frances' fingers tightened around his as she whispered:

— "I will never be able to thank you enough. It is a great sacrifice"

Tristan pulled at her hand, getting her to face him so that he could gaze into her eyes. She seemed… totally stunned still. Unsurprising because so was he. He was glad that she understood the heavy price of his decision, but couldn't let her wallow in guilt or gratefulness forever. The risk would be to unbalance their relationship and sent it toppling over.

— "No. It will be difficult, but no sacrifice Frances. I have come to see that my path now rested with yours. It is God's will just as much as it was before. I will continue to work for him, albeit in a different way."

Her eyes widened slightly as she watched him, digging deep, searching to understand what he was trying to convey. Then, at last, her features unlocked and she smiled gently, her free hand lifting to his cheekbone.

— "I understand what you mean. But I am grateful all the same for the opportunity to have you in my life."

Blood rushed to his cheek; as much from the heartfelt compliment than from the contact of her soft hand upon his face. And when she closed the distance, his breath itched. Frances stood on her toes, her eyes firmly planted into his until… her lips bestowed a gentle, feather like kiss, her breath mingling with his in a blessed moment. Then her arms snaked around his middle and she lay her head upon his chest with a loaded sigh. As if the whole word that rested upon her shoulders could now hold on its own, leaving her behind. Free.

They stayed a long time intertwined on the forecourt, Tristan's arms circling her little frame with strength and purpose, hearts beating against each other. Such a beautiful moment to release the pressure and realise that they were both alive and well. Together. Frances eventually pushed away shily, taking in, for the first time, the thin white shirt he was wearing. Without the frock, it left him much more exposed than she had ever seen him. Her hand landed upon the soft fabric, tentative, brushing slightly against his collarbone before retreating.

— "Do you still have you room?", she asked.

Tristan winced slightly, remembering how he'd been unceremoniously kicked out of his lodgings as soon as his decision was announced. Replaced in less time that it took to blink, without even the time for another mass.

— "No. I had to vacate it. I'm in a youth hostel at the moment."

He didn't have to say more, for Frances frowned on his behalf, reading his distress easily.

— "This is harsh"

Tristan's tongue poked against his teeth, wondering how much he should say about it. A part of him would always be loyal to the church, and he didn't want to increase Frances' contempt with a system that needed changes. But the way they treated him still hurt.

Seeing his flustered state, the young woman bit her cheek and turned him around to walk away. Frances looped her arm around his shyly, her slender fingers bracing against his biceps in an attempt to keep contact. It was pretty symbolic, to leave his beloved church behind, mingling in the crowd of people enjoying this day's sunshine. So they took little, slow steps.

— "Tell me if any contact makes you uncomfortable", she said.

Tristan didn't pause in his steps, for it grounded him into reality. Her touch, although light, felt strangely soothing.

— "No", he eventually said. "I am glad you are here with me. It … helps"

And despite the dull ache in his chest, Tristan was indeed glad for her presence by his side. For he was now walking the world as a man without a purpose, no collar upon his shirt, no job to perform, no one to help and preach to. Entirely free. A terrifying experience. And he didn't question Frances about where she led him. One step at a time, he was quite ready to follow her anywhere as long as she remained by his side. He quite dreaded the moment he would have to return to the youth's hotel and settle, alone, between sheets that were not his own.

Frances remained silent for a while, enjoying the sun shining upon her skin, basking in the warm presence of the man beside her. Their status wasn't all cleared either, but the former priest had too much on his plate to even consider formalizing anything between them. This situation was so overwhelming; would she understand how he felt if he talked ? Eventually, Tristan decided to try.

— "It was… rather brutal, for an institution that I respected. I thought I would have time to preach next Sunday, if only to inform people that I am leaving"

The young woman mulled over something for a moment until she turned her vibrant gaze to him. From up close, he towered over her easily but she didn't seem to mind, craning her elegant neck to meet his eyes.

— "Well… what prevents you from coming next Sunday, and say goodbye ? As a friend."

Tristan's eyebrows shot upon his forehead. Wasn't this against the church itself ? His superior would certainly not be pleased.

— "The new appointed priest might not enjoy it."

She shrugged, the movement reverberating up his arm.

— "Who cares ? The people who kicked you out for loving another ? You are not tainted, Tristan. You have taken care of those people and befriended them. They will miss you, and be happy to know you are still alive and well, just steering on another path. They don't need to know the particulars if you don't want to share it"

Anger underlined her words, but she kept it on a tight leash and he was grateful for it. He was in no state to revisit the disappointment of his last dealings with the church. Still… her idea held some appeal and caused the burden to lighten a little. Yes, perhaps he could do that. The corner of his lips twisted slightly, and Tristan realized that Frances would be a great help for thinking outside his usual box.

— "Maybe I could, yes. Your support means a lot, thank you."

Frances grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles gently. The gesture felt oddly comforting, as if she poured all her love in this tiny contact.

— "Anytime. I owe you a thousand years of support, honestly."

Tristan shook his head.

— "You don't owe me anything."

His words caused Frances to stop and face him, grabbing both of his hands in hers. Her serious gaze held his, the gold in her eyes accentuated by the direct light flooding the street.

— "No, you're right. Because your help was free given. But you deserve the world, and I'm going to get out of my way to offer it to you."

She was so serious, so earnest that it took his breath away. No one had ever regarded him like he was a walking miracle, and to see how strongly she felt for him, how high her regard humbled him entirely. Did he deserve the world ? He doubted it, much, but he knew that if he could deserve her, then he would be a happy man.

— "Having you is more than I had ever hoped for."

Her smile would have blinded him had he not been so dazed in the first place.

— "Good. I'm in the world, after all. Let's go and get your things, Tristan. My place is not big, but I doubt you have much. We can fit."

The words left his mouth in a rush, his heart racing.

— "Oh I couldn't possibly intrude"

— "I've got a bed in the living room as well. Space in the bookcase. You are very welcome home, Tristan."

Home. His mind blanked. True, he wasn't rich; the church wasn't too generous when it came to wages. And even if he wasn't a dispendious man, his economies amounted to next to nothing. Lodging would become a problem before he even found a job, and he loathed the idea to get back to his father. Yet… moving in with her, just like this ? Before any kind of agreement, of engagement ? It was wrong on so many levels. His hesitation probably permeated through his expression because she squeezed his hand.

— "I will ask nothing of you, Tristan. I know where you come from, and won't push. You set the pace."

— "Are you sure ?", his wavering voice questioned.

She nodded easily without a trace of doubt.

— "I am. And I don't think it would be good for you to be alone right now."

Tristan didn't say a thing, neither confirming nor denying the truth of her analysis. Frances didn't push, leaving his hands to give him some space. Despite the heat, he felt keenly the loss of contact as she went on.

— "I am a cuddler, know that any physical affection will be welcome, but not needed. My heart is open for you, so are my arms. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I won't push you"

— "You certainly have more experience that I do", he said, his voice strangely composed when he felt nothing but.

Frances cocked her head aside, assessing what to answer to appease his fears. Somehow, she seemed as tentative as he was in this whole mess.

— "A little, but not so much. It is always new, you know, because everyone is different. I am nervous too, afraid to disappoint on so many levels."

Tristan nodded, uneasy. A sly smirk lifted the corner of Frances' rosy lips as she quipped.

— "So you have never kissed a woman?"

He didn't take offense of her tentative to brighten the mood, choosing, instead, to be entirely truthful.

— "I have, a long time ago. Probably not the right girl, or I might have chosen another path"

Her eyes alighted with curiosity; there would be a conversation about it, for sure. But for now, she only grabbed his arm once more and they resumed walking. Now, he realized that she had been bringing him home all along. Her head gently rested upon his shoulder for a moment, the weight settling in his bones as if she belonged here.

— "I am glad you chose this path, it led you to me"

The weight of this statement only reinforced the sense of rightfulness in his chest, light flooding his veins with its warmth.

— "Yes. This is why I think God smiles upon me today. I have not failed him, for he led me to this exact moment with a smile on his face."

Frances lifted her chin to catch his eyes, her features radiating happiness and he couldn't help but smile back.

— "Ditto!"

**_So... I read a lot about French priest who actually left church to get married, and found that they remained faithful just as well, and adjusted it differently in their lives. So, erh, not impossible. They also deplored being kicked out without notice once their choice was done, but still fought to be part of the church in a different way. Only priest can't get married, but there are many little hands in the organization that have a family and faith._**

**_I'm not done exploring Tristan's mind; I found it rather intriguing, honestly. There are a few chapters that follow this._**


	30. Chapter 30 - God part VIII

**_As usual, thank you for your kind reviews. All of them. I didn't think people would love that story, it came rather personal and I had trouble gathering that it would touch anyone else than me._**

**_Koba: I think Tristan really had faith in what he was doing, and in the path God showed him. So it made more sense that he would think of it for a long time before taking the decision. I'm glad it didn't shock you. I was careful as well, because even though I don't like religious institutions, I highly respect people who have faith and act upon it. There are so many polemics at the moment around the church that I really didn't want to delve into those controversial matters._**

Frances dropped the heavy card box in the living room with a huff, cursing – in her head – about the insane weight of knowledge. Books! Her arms ached from the strain, but luckily, they were now done. And if she was being honest, Tristan didn't have that many things in the first place. Occupational habit? She hoped he wouldn't freak out on her shoe collection… But to think he had moved his belongings, trip after trip, by hand from his former room to the youth hostel didn't sit well with her. "I welcomed the exertion," he said, "It helped me think."

— "So, next moving, we'll put half books, half clothes in those cardboxes, right?"

Her casual tone carried well over her small living room, but Tristan was frozen beside the table – her great-grandmother's. Frances frowned.

— "What is wrong?" she asked gently.

— "I was just wondering in what circumstances my next move will occur."

She missed it entirely; the anxiety and uncertainty of knowing if she would be by his side. Because, to her, it was so obvious that it needn't be voiced at all. Hence the shrug, followed by a wince. Her back muscles would be protesting for a few days.

— "Well. We'll probably have help from my family, so it won't matter. My little brother is a bulldozer."

Tristan's eyes flickered in the light, his gaze so intense that she actually shuddered. Standing tall in her little flat, she suddenly felt more self-conscious. Contrary to her visits to his place, he had never set a foot inside. A line they had never crossed, until today. It almost felt like a miracle to see him, in this setting, even if he didn't quite know what to do with himself. Seeing how insecure he was, Frances opted to familiarise him with the place. Her parents had been nice enough to get her a nice flat away from home. It wasn't luxuous, per se, but neat and decorated with taste. The counter wasn't a cheap Formica – like her table – but a granite stone that curved around the area. The shelves in the bedroom made of solid calcite. And the bathroom was positioned as en-suite, a curtain separating it from the bedroom with large windows all along the eastern side. But the best, especially in summer, was the nice terrasse. At least forty square metres, right beyond the huge French doors, which called for a moment of peace outside. Tristan would easily be able to perform his Tai-Chi routines out there. Already, she could see his gaze lingered outside.

— "Come, I'll show you around and we'll see how to get you settled properly."

The tall man nodded nervously and she reached for his hand, caressing his knuckles gently.

— "It will be all right, Tristan. You will adjust, and from there, you can regroup and consider what you want to do for the future. In the meantime, let me take care of you."

Her words seemed to strike a chord as he drew her in his arms, squeezing tight. For a moment, she just circled his back and rested her head upon his chest. She doubted heaven would feel as great as this. At last, he released her, giving her a look so awed that she wondered what he was seeing.

Then she brought him around; it was a small flat, but good enough for two. Wachine machine, restroom were first. Then the kitchen appliances, and the huge closet where she kept her grandma's freezer. She could tell by the way Tristan tensed that he didn't like the idea of passing through her bedroom to get to the bathroom, but it couldn't be helped. At least, the toilet was easily accessible. The counter was large enough for her to gather her stuff on one side, and leave the other one for him. And so, for the better part of the afternoon, Frances and Tristan worked, hand in hand, to unpack his things and find the appropriate place to store it. It was a little weird, to see his belongings settle beside hers. His shoes in the entrance, his toothbrush by hers, his shirts temporarily in the closet, his books upon the shelves.

At last, satisfied with their work, they dragged two chairs outside to enjoy the sunset. On a whim, Frances suggested a cocktail with a little rum, and was surprised when Tristan didn't decline. He was, after all, quite out of his element and in dire need of a relaxing drink. The alcohol took effect soon enough and she watched him as he retreated in his thoughts. His features were so earnestly lost that her heart ached for him.

— "Come, Tristan, we need to rest," she said.

The former priest nodded, and followed her inside his new home.

And this night, after they had pulled the sofa and made his bed, the former priest quite wondered where his path would lead him. His heart sung with joy to have Frances by his side; they got along so easily. Yet, his mind kept mulling over his choice, and his future. He didn't want to be a burden to her.

Tristan suddenly felt heaviness settle in his limbs. He sat upon the mattress, head falling into his hands. Reality was crashing onto him quite fiercely. The choice was made. A tremor ran up his spine, a disturbance that settled deep into his belly. Doubts were creeping again … the moment she disappeared from his sight…

As if on cue, Frances appeared, teeth brushed and ready for bed. He heard her light steps approach him, and the bed dipping slightly beside him as she sat, silent as a mouse. Tristan was too tired to pull his head up and meet her gaze, afraid that his hesitations would her hurt her. Perhaps she would think he didn't love her enough.

Tristan shouldn't have worried; she understood. Slowly, Frances leant into him, her head landing over his shoulder. A simple contact, nothing demanding, just the warmth of her presence and steadiness of her support. They remained like statues for a long while, she, content to breathe the same air as he was. He, relishing in the tingling it brought to his entire being. As if, by staying by his side, she could insufflate a new sense of purpose into him.

A long, shuddering sight escaped his lips before Tristan found the strength to lift his head up. Frances stood, then, and came to settle in front of him. Before he could fry his brain with questions such as – how inappropriate this was and is she even wearing a bra? – her long arms wound up around his shoulders in a mighty hug, crushing him into her chest. Tristan had never known such tenderness, such close contact since his childhood. It brought him strength, squeezing her waist back against him, his cheek resting comfortably against her breathing heart. Thud thud thud. Such a soothing rhythm, the symbol of her life. His chest inflated in full, the dull ache disappearing as God filled him anew. His link to the almighty was here, and not forgotten. But he realised that his bounds to the earth had been missing, even after all the Tai Chi. And Frances, with the smell of her skin, the strength of her arms and the intensity of her embrace, reminded him that all human beings must be anchored into matter. She truly was a blessing.

The young woman left with a gentle kiss, just a caress to his lips, wishing him goodnight before closing the blinds of the living room. The door to her bedroom closed, the light disappearing soon after. Then, it was just him and the darkness. It was rather quiet, here, even more so that in his old quarters. Her scent was everywhere; in the sheets – patterned with Chinese symbols, how fitting – in the air, upon his light blanket and the cushion she had given him. And to know her so close … it put a balm to his heart. Tristan fell asleep to the slight purring of her little fridge. Just like his own in the clerical room.

Friday was a working day for Frances. Fortunately, now that her schedule had changed, she started at nine rather than eight which compensated for the 8 years of missing beauty sleep. Contrary to her usual routine, it wasn't the low sound of the radio on her Hifi that woke her up. Starting in bed, the young woman chased the fog out of her dreams before realising that the faint noises coming from the kitchen didn't come from a burglar or an intruder, but from the man she had pined upon the past month. Tristan. The same man she had invited into her life.

This realisation sent warm fuzzies into her heart, settling her worried thoughts pleasantly. A look at her very old-fashioned watch told her it wasn't 8 already, yet she felt rested and content. Frances threw herself in the shower, completing the morning routine in a top record of ten minutes before her impatience took her to the living room. When at last she pushed the door, fresh from head to toe and minimal make-up upon her face, she found … no one. For Tristan was in the kitchen, hidden from sight as he cooked some eggs. Frances smiled as she took in the table; two mugs, two plates and cutlery at the ready. Fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, butter and jam ready to be spread. Damn!

Rounding the corner, she leant across the wall to gaze at this man she so loved. She wasn't too sure yet that he was hers, but every single part of her wished that he was. For even without the frock, he cut an impressive figure! Too tall in her diminutive kitchen, shoulder-wide, his head hunched over his work. His light chestnut hair was combed neatly, his high cheekbones standing out against the beard that covered his cheeks. So handsome … so intense. Concentrated on his work, so much that he didn't realise she was standing there. Until…

— "Good morning, Tristan. Did you sleep well?"

His lack of surprise told her he might have known she was here after all. His intense golden-flecked eyes greeted her just as much as his smooth voice.

— "Good morning, Frances. Yes. I had a restful night, the best from the past month."

His earnestness touched her and she realised, just as well, that her dreams had not plagued her either. On a whim, Frances stood on her tip toes and kissed his scruffy cheek. Tristan's body tensed, so she backed away to give him some space. He returned to the saucepan, seemingly satisfied with the mixture.

— "Breakfast is ready," he stated.

Frances fished a bottle of orange juice from the fridge, her eyes lingering wistfully on the smoking teapot.

— "You didn't have to…", she started.

Tristan passed behind her, so close that she could feel his warmth seeping through her thin t-shirt.

— "I didn't, but it is my pleasure nonetheless."

— "Thank you fa…"

Frances froze as a flash of pain passed in his eyes. Her knuckles tightened on the chair, her mind reeling from the lapsus. This would take a little getting used to. At last, she seated herself beside him and "manned up".

— "Thank you, Tristan. This is a feast."

The former priest regarded her thoroughly before opting to deflect the elephant in the room.

— "You didn't use to skip breakfast, did you?"

His concern caused the young woman to smile, warmth settling once more inside her chest. The man was so used to take care of the others that she would have to put her foot down. But not today, for his concern felt so good that she didn't want to brush it away. Adjustment would certainly take time, and she had no doubt they would be able to find the right equilibrium.

— "No, but it certainly wasn't nearly as complete nor as enjoyable as this one."

— "Good. I'm glad"

Light conversation was shared during the meal, but Frances mostly concentrated on how good it was to settle with fresh bread and tea, and a plate of scrambled eggs in the morning. Tristan was an early riser, and she would have a hard time returning the favour as long as he slept in the living room. She hoped, somehow, that it wouldn't last for she longed to sleep beside him. When 8.40 came, she piled up the plates and got ready to leave. Tristan brushed her attempt at cleaning the dishes away and started right away, wondering what he was going to do with his day.

So when she approached him again, her bag hanging off her shoulder, he spared her a glance that told her how lost he was.

— "So, erm… These are your keys. This one to the front door, this one to the terrasse and the badge to unlock either of the building doors."

She left the little metal devices in his hand, taking in the stunned look upon his face.

— "But …?"

Frances gave him a genuine smile, the expression brightening her features so beautifully that he had to refrain from kissing her soundly.

— "There are two sets, and since you live here, you are entitled to having yours. It wouldn't do to have you locked out, right?"

— "Right"

Frances squeezed his hand before she left; she had sensed his need for distance. Yet, her feet took her lightly through the front door. He spied her from the terrace when she exited the building, bouncing like a fairy. Like a child, even; the age difference, alone put a damper to his mood. But when she sent him a wave, he couldn't help but catch the very serious gaze upon her face. Happy, yet worried for him. No, she was no child. Younger than himself, for sure, but a wise woman nonetheless. And she knew he would be there all along, taking one last peek at her before she disappeared from the courtyard.

Never had the classes seemed so long. Damn, it just didn't want to end, even the cartography sessions, that she usually enjoyed, dragged on and on. Even the flirtatious smile of her teacher couldn't sway her thoughts from Tristan. What was he doing, in her flat, today? The sun shone, and she hoped he enjoyed the terrasse to perform a little Tai Chi routine. That he would feel good enough to rummage through the appliances and cupboards to find what he needed. A towel, perhaps, to have a shower. The fridge, to cook for his lunch.

The memory of his delicious breakfast called a smile to her lips. Even if it didn't become a daily occurrence, it felt like a fairytale. Stopping to consider if she deserved it wasn't an option, especially when the teacher decided to let them go. She that usually lingered to perfect her work dashed to the door and jumped in her car before any of her friends could possibly stop her. This week end, Frances intended to be dead to the world.

But God was a mischievous creature, for the door was locked when she eventually made it home. Uh?

A surge of panic caused her heart to flutter in a wrong way, and she fumbled with the keys to rush inside. Phew. Tristan's things were still in the room. Deflating, Frances sunk into the sofa for a good ten minutes, her gaze distant, as she considered the very unsavoury idea of Tristan wanting to have a life of his own. But he had left the church for the love of her, hadn't he? So he couldn't … run away like this? Still, her touches had made him uncomfortable this morning. So she wondered…

When the man appeared on her doorsteps with two heavy bags of groceries, Frances couldn't help but give him a watery smile. As she stood, her legs wobbled a little. Tristan frowned and shed his shoes in the entrance. Leaving the bags behind, he came to stand in front of Frances. Three feet away, as had been their custom when his frock still reigned his life.

— "Is there anything wrong, Frances? You look shaken."

The young woman exhaled very slowly, just like he had taught her. As Tristan's hand lifted, then stilled away from her face. Unsecure. So she cupped his fingers with hers and lay her cheek in his palm, closing her eyes in delight. He was here, his skin inviting, his blood pulsating upon his wrist. Tristan stood still, waiting patiently, his breath even, his eyes never leaving her tense features. Eventually, Frances' eyes opened, darkness swirling within the warm chocolate. Fear and sadness mingling.

— "I was afraid you were gone. That you had changed your mind," she whispered.

Her words hit him like a ton of bricks, causing his heart to skip a beat.

— "Oh"

And his arms tugged at her without his mind registering, pulling the young woman in his embrace. Her head fit so nicely against his chest, their height difference allowing him to stack her under his chin. Her heavy sigh betrayed her tension, and he caressed her hair gently, all the while pretty stunned by the wave of belonging that crashed through his body. She fit so well in his arms that he never wanted to let go.

— "Do not fear," he murmured into her ear. "My decision is made, I will be with you as long as you want me."

— "Promise?" came her little voice, muffled against his chest.

His heart broke a little at that. If, during the course of this past month, he had doubted her love for him, the tone of her voice was a strong deterrent. She had suffered from the separation; she suffered still.

— "This is a promise."

At some point, Frances wiggled slightly, bending backwards to catch his eyes without stirring from his embrace.

— "This is stupid. I should be ecstatic to have you, and I am already afraid to lose you. I don't want to be ungrateful, really but…"

Tristan cupped her cheek, his fingers sliding, ever slowly, to her nape in hope of bringing comfort.

— "If this past month had been as difficult for you as it has been for me, it will probably take a little time to mend."

Frances bit her lip, gazing into his eyes. He knew she could read his own pain easily, and for once, he could let it show without fear if being judged. Without having to be strong.

— "I was barely alive," she whispered. "For once, I just couldn't see the future. It couldn't exist without you in it."

— "I felt the same. The path within the church was severed."

And he kicked himself for taking so long to understand it, but there they were. Frances' little fingers grazed his cheek, sliding into his beard. Exploring. And suddenly, Tristan didn't want to wallow into their past misery. Now was the time to swipe it away, and start over. A clean slate.

— "Do you want me to shave?"

Frances froze, her fingers stilling upon his cheek.

— "I … don't know. Do you want to shave?" she asked.

Tristan nodded, confused. How many women had he heard complaining their husbands, about beards and showers and trivial matters. But Frances only wanted to know what HE wanted.

— "I am considering it."

She kissed his bearded cheek then, and his decision was made. He wanted to feel her lips upon his skin.

— "I am grateful for your consideration, Tristan. But your choices are your own, especially when it comes to your appearance. Do as you see fit"

The former priest nodded; he had a new purpose. For fifteen years, he had grown this beard in honour of Jesus Christ. Today, things were about to change. Frances offered to stow away the groceries while he took a shower and shaved. And while she shuffled into the kitchen, Tristan watched, fascinated, the skin of his cheeks appear under the electric device. Trimmed, sure. But entirely shaved? Never. Not once since he bought the razor. His pointed chin stood out a little, his cheekbones even more; the beard was an excellent way to hide the heavy structure. What would Frances think? Tristan shrugged. If she didn't like it, he could always grow the beard again.

He shouldn't have worried, for her look of absolute delight when he emerged from the bathroom told him exactly what she thought. Her hand landed on his freshly shaven cheek; his skin tingled, so much that he closed his eyes to savour the gentle hum his body returned at her touch.

— "You are very handsome, Tristan. I am glad I am allowed to say so, now."

A smile tugged at his lips; he had yet to tell her how beautiful he found her. For now, though, he was rather glad to be up to her standards.

— "So you like it?"

Her eyes were wide, so full of love that his whole body responded cheerfully, blood rushing through his veins.

— "Yes. Seeing your face, in earnest, is a present. Can I …?"

She didn't finish her sentence; there was no need for words and he dipped forward, capturing her lips into a slow kiss. Her hands circled his back, pulling him against her. Tristan's senses went a little haywire, overwhelmed; her scent surrounded him, her arms called him to melt into her, her lips … heavens! They were plump, and warm, and smelt of hot chocolate. She was a delight, a present for him to taste. Her little tongue gently swiped at his upper lip before she released him, causing a shiver to run up his spine. Just a caress; one that promised more tenderness.

Tristan straightened; he didn't know how quite to handle that yet. So she smiled, and turned to her wardrobe.

— "So, while you tackled facial hair, I've sorted out some stuff to make more space for your clothes."

The entire higher level had been cleared out. A token of his place in her life, or perhaps just because of his greater height. But he knew how Frances clung to symbols so … it was probably the former.

— "I don't want to kick you out of your closet, Frances."

The young woman grabbed his hand and slid her fingers between his. Had she not levelled him with a very serious look, he might have lost his train of thoughts altogether. Her touch was so distracting!

— "Tristan. You have no idea how I have wept those past weeks, thinking I would have to go on without you in my life. You have no idea how grateful I am to have you now, there. I would throw away my stuff if it meant I could keep you beside me. So let me make some space for you, and our clothes can share the closet as you share my life."

His mouth opened, then closed. A few times. He couldn't find the words. So, instead, he went to fetch his shirts and pants in the pantry closet and placed them here, beside hers. And within a few minutes, as he contemplated their mutual belonging sitting beside each other, he had to admit that she was right. It felt as if … he belonged by her side.

— "Thank you," he murmured.

— "No. I thank you for that difficult choice. I would have respected it either way, but having you by my side is the present of my life."

A week passed, a neat routine settling. Tristan would, after his morning Tai Chi, prepare breakfast for his sleeping beauty. During the day, he shopped, cooked, and walked. Monday and Wednesday night he taught Tai Chi at the youth house. The rest of the time, he worked on his CV, and applied for random jobs in the city. He was troubled enough that Frances refused he paid the rent; he was damned if he wasn't going to contribute to their life.

Physical contact was scarce, at first. It became more casual, less jarring as time spend. It was sometimes just a hand on his shoulder, of a kiss on his cheek that made his smile. He enjoyed every minute of her touch, every single moment her lips graced his skin. And all his conditioning – physically was a sin – started to ebb away, for he knew that her touch was another aspect of her love. She connected with him on different levels. And God did he enjoy it! There wasn't a day he got bored with their conversation, not a confrontation that could be appeased by goodwill and reassurances. She was just so easy to live with, so thoughtful. Never pushing, never prodding, always willing to give him emotional stability.

Kisses became more casual; he initiated most of them since Frances didn't want to push him. Until he told him she could come to him. This rather unleashed her caressing presence. And this evening, as they lay intertwined upon his bed, watching a movie, he realised that Frances had fallen asleep upon his chest. Her even breaths fanned on his collarbone, her hand circling his waist. At ease, like a little hamster sleeping amongst its peers, her head tucked between chest and shoulder. Tristan was too afraid to move; she had just asked for a cuddle before bed. There they were, together, stuck above the covers.

So, gently, slowly, Tristan reached for the plaid that literally lived on the sofa. The night was warm; she shouldn't be too cold. And, using the only arm he had left, he spread it upon them before switching the TV off. The former priest fell asleep nary ten minutes later, relishing in the warm and comfort the lady brought him.

And when the next morning she stirred, apologising profusely, he kissed her lips gently to silence her. He didn't open the sofa the next evening, choosing, instead, to sit upon her own bed. Frances' eyebrows rose in surprise, then a fond smile quirked her lips up. Opening the covers for him, she let him settle upon the mattress – much softer than the living room's sofa – before she cuddled against him again.

— "Good?" she asked, her voice laced with hope.

— "Good," he replied.

From that day, Tristan never slept in the living room again.


	31. Chapter 31 - God Part XIX

_**Hey. Last chapter, then epilogue. I hope your enjoy it, it might be a little... heavily smutty :p**_

_**Anyway, we're on a second lockdown here in France so send your prayers to us, I'll return them to all of you because no part in the world is quite safe from the mess. Lots of hugs for you Koba, I hope you are doing better.**_

Frances added the potato slices overt the rest, covering, layer by layer, the onions and courgettes that coated the bottom of the cooking pot. Then she added pepper, salt, coriander and more olive oil.

— "And now, the tomatoes", she quipped.

Tristan gave her the chopping board, one eyebrow rising in amusement. And when Frances eventually put the lid upon the pot, she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. Warmth pooled in her belly, the joy at seeing such a fond look directed at her not unexpected, but always welcome.

— "What ?", she asked cheekily.

Tristan's tongue darted over his upper lip, as if he hesitated to tease. Frances' eyes cringed at the corner, daring him to voice his thoughts. The former priest took up the challenge, his face dead serious save from that gleam in the depths of his gaze.

— "Are you sedimenting our food, Frances ?"

The young woman burst out laughing; he certainly had a sense of humor. So when her giggles abated, she quipped merrily:

— "Professional quirk"

Tristan's voice washed over her, sending shivers down her spine.

— "Sedimentary cooking it is then."

Her hand slightly fumbled over the great wooden spoon as she tried to keep her bearings. The things this man did to her… phew. It was getting more and more difficult to share this space without ravishing him entirely, especially at night. Now that his arms pulled her close when she slumbered, now that her mouth rested upon his collarbone, an inch away from being able to nuzzle his neck, kiss his chin or suck at the hollow spot upon his throat… gosh. Way too difficult !

Frances wasn't a woman who took sex lightly. Not even close. At twenty-three years old, her history of ex-boyfriends stopped at two. Never a one-night stand, not even a sex-friend. Compared to many, she was mild, or frigid. Entirely unmodern and patronizing; for her, sex was the equivalent of a deep engagement, a bond that nothing could ever break. She didn't trust enough to let anyone touch her that way unless they were here to stay.

But God, having Tristan so close, yet so far was driving her crazy. Crazy enough to make her feel like a nympho ! And the fact that she kept seeing him in this frock – in her memories – tended to spook her just as well. Father Tristan was untouchable, whereas the man, caused her hormones to go haywire.

And every single moment his scent washed over her, or she felt his warmth against her skin, she had to kick herself not to push him. Every fiber of her being wanted him, every single cell screamed in agony, asking to be made complete, to taste and prod, to caress and cherish. But layers upon layers of clothes still separated them, the perfect wall to represent how his mind wasn't ready to take that leap.

Taking a deep breath, Frances stirred the vegetables into the cooking pot. Her lips quirked; sedimentary cooking indeed !

The next morning, Frances parked in front of the school, wondering what was playing in Tristan's mind for him to ask for the car. His secretive smile told her not to pry, so she just surrendered her keys and stole a kiss before the surroundings became more crowded. At this hour – almost nine – most of the students were already in classes save her promotion. Both she and Tristan exited the rounded vehicle, her eyes lingering upon the beautiful man that was hers. With the heat, he had reluctantly accepted to wear short sleeves. Where the freshness of his church used to cool him all day long, he now had to cope with the continental weather. Not that Frances was complaining; short sleeves exposed his very toned arms. Not that his biceps were huge, but damn, she could see every single muscular fibre playing on his forearms; a true anatomic model… so distracting. Ugh ! It didn't quite help her cool down either way. And she had never seen him shirtless before. She longed to kiss him… everywhere.

Tristan's hand lingered upon her cheek for a moment, calling her back to reality. His gaze pinned her into place, the intensity reducing her to smouldering ambers.

— "Are you all right ?", he asked, his voice low.

And for a moment, the rest of the world just disappeared as she stared into the beloved eyes of this extraordinary man. Then she nodded, allowing him to let go. Her look was pensive when he folded inside her small car and drove away, leaving her quite dazed upon the pavewalk.

— "So who's the hottie ?", came a familiar voice.

Frances' eyes widened as she realized that Maëlle was fastening her bike less then ten meters away. Shit, shit shit. She had forgotten she came by bike. Of all her friends here, she wasn't likely to let this go. Well, she wouldn't gossip, but once her curiosity was peaked… And from the smirk that adorned the young woman's face, she was in for a long morning. SO busted ! Picking up her courage, Frances smiled.

— "Er. Short or long version ?"

Maëlle's smile widened.

— "Long please"

— "Then let's share lunch together. You're in for the long haul"

Lunchtime found both girls in deep conversation over the past months; the seal was broken. The only secret she kept to herself was his previous occupation, the rest flew easily. After all, she could tell everyone she had met him in church, and Tristan would decide whom to entrust with his former status as a priest.

It took her a few tries to find the proper definition for Tristan, but eventually, the term companion imposed itself. He wasn't a boyfriend – there was nothing boyish left expect for a few expressions. Boyfriends didn't tend to last. Neither a good friend, for they loved each other deeply. Nor a lover; they had not crossed that line yet. But a companion… a companion could do. They both trod into the unknown, side by side, discovering what it meant to be a couple

And somehow, it felt good to talk to someone she trusted. As if this little burden, the fear to fail Tristan, evaporated little by little by Maëlle's patient ear. The unexpected side effect, though, was her friend's insistence to meet the guy as soon as possible. Protective much ? Or just curiosity ? Whichever of those motives, Maëlle stood by her side when Tristan came around to pick her up in the evening. Frances waited, rooted to the spot; there wasn't much choice but to accept. Seeing her blank face, her friend nudged her playfully.

— "Come on, I'm not going to threaten him"

Frances gave Maëlle a wary look.

— "I know. I'm just wary of your…"

— "…humour ?"

Frances bit her cheek. Her friend was, in this school, one of the few young women she could trust. But she was such a handful of wild energy and good intentions, a little forceful sometimes. And while Frances had no trouble pushing people away – Maëlle included - she didn't quite know how Tristan would react to this surprise invasion of their new relationship. So eventually, she accepted her failure and dropped her shoulders.

— "No. just you."

Maëlle gave her a mock stare from above her long nose when the little grey car appeared before them, effectively cutting the argument short. Frances' heart plummeted in her shoes, wondering how this impromptu meeting would go.

She shouldn't have worried, for Tristan took the introduction in stride. His smile was genuine, his manners impeccable, if a little distant. In the end, it was Maëlle who retreated to her bike, quite fazed by the imposing presence of the former priest. Frances watched her go, realizing the error of her ways; Tristan had no need for her coddling. Support, yes. But no coddling. After all, he was a people's person, and nearly ten years older than she was. There was no need to shield him away and lock him in a tower like Rapunzel, even if he used to be a priest.

— "Do you want to drive ?", Tristan asked.

Frances took a good look at him, reeling from her last revelation. His strong hands, his shy smile but confident poise, the exposed muscles of his forearms… Apart from the night of the concert, Tristan had never driven while she was in attendance. As an implicit rule: her car, she was on the wheel. A good time as any for a change. So Frances smiled, plopping into the passenger's seat.

— "No. You're on the insurance list now and I'm grateful for the break"

The smile he addressed her told her appreciated the gesture; she wondered if he might have interpreted her coddling as a lack of trust ? Or an attempt to hide him from her friends ?

— "So, will you tell me why you needed the car today ?"

Tristan seemed in a good mood, but he still didn't answer the fated question.

— "Patience, my little padawan"

Frances huffed, then tried to fight the smile that crept upon her face as Tristan's right hand grabbed hers over the gearstick.

— "I'll show you instead"

— "Fair enough"

Seeing that she was willing to relent, he questioned her about Maëlle. By the time they reached her flat she had almost forgotten the nagging question at the back of her mind. But Tristan had not.

She found the response in the bedroom where, now, a lovely bedframe had sprouted to life. Until now, they slept on a mattress with a springer underneath. Now, dark wood dressed it, a solid piece of work with a sober look and sturdy planks. Mouth agape, Frances let her fingers run across the smooth furniture, eyes lingering upon the headboard.

— "Do you like it ?"

Frances nearly jumped; she had been so absorbed in her observation that she had missed Tristan's approach. She grabbed his hand, dragging it across her waist, warmth fingers resting upon her stomach as she smiled. And despite the heat building up already – the weather was stifling - she had no intention to let go. So, instead, she leaned into him with a blissful sight.

— "Yes. It looks much better this way. But… How… ?"

— "Picked it up today. I bought a few tools as well, your screwdriver was hopeless."

Frances chuckled; she wasn't much of a manual girl, needle aside. She'd built all the furniture in her flat with her father – IKEA, fortunately ! - who was as hopeless as she was. Good memories from two years past that caused a chuckle to shake her slender frame.

— "Can't fault you there."

His hand tugged at her waist, effectively turning her around to face him. There was a seriousness in his gaze that caused her eyes to widen.

— "It's my contribution to the rent you won't let me pay", he said.

Frances scrunched her nose; there was no bite in his words, but she couldn't miss the slight accusation.

— "Does it bother you ?", she eventually asked.

— "A little."

Right. The experience of this very afternoon came back to her, and instead of protesting that he had just been kicked out of his institution and was without resources, she took a deep breath.

— "All right. How about we take a moment and sit down ? We could make a budget together."

The former priest nodded, his poker face impenetrable; if he was surprised by her easy acceptance, not a clue showed on his beautiful features.

— "I would like that"

Frances, took a leap of faith then.

— "I think… If you pay for some of the rent, it would only be fair that I don't take it from my parents. Which might lead to some questions..."

Tristan nodded again, thoughtful. True, he had forgotten that Frances wasn't working to pay for her studies. Given how hard said diploma was to obtain, he doubted it was even possible to pass and work at the same time. He respected her parents for allowing her this luxury, and Frances for wanting to reduce the burden over them. He knew she wasn't one to take advantage of people, yet, it still made him proud to have found such an honourable woman.

If he paid his part, it also meant that the bubble would burst. Cowardly as it seemed, he found the down time pretty useful to organize his thoughts. Just him and Frances, without interruptions, or questions, or … well, aside from Maëlle today. Frances' hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts.

— "Listen. I can set the money aside, for the moment, and give them back when we decide to…"

— "Tell them there's a man in your bed ?"

Frances snorted then, a mischievous smile brightening her features. Tristan's eyes darted to her delicious rosy lips; the way they quirked up, begging to be kissed.

— "Our bed…", she gently said.

And despite the heat, it was his turn to shiver. Responding to the urge, Tristan reached for her. His long fingers cupped her face, tingling all the way to his elbow. She closed her eyes, leaning into his caress, as this simple touch brought her the blissful light of the heavens. She was so beautiful, her lips offered, her body awaiting his contact. Trust. Devotion to his every whim. And Tristan had never been more afraid to give in, for his strength faltered now more than ever. The pleasure of the flesh called to him… or was it the need to be close ? The lie of a platonic love had been trampled at his feet so very fast; his body reacted to her touch far too eagerly.

Not to say Tristan was ungrateful; life with Frances was easy. She spoke plainly, about her studies, about the world, about the things he had missed while being scooped in church. As for everyday life, they walzed in her flat; partners without having to communicate aloud. Like a set of twins suns, revolving around each other. Coming closer, and closer, until he was sure to be burnt. Until he wanted to be burnt, so badly that his skin hummed.

Tristan relished in the breath she released upon his neck, right before he caught her lips. Her beautiful, heavenly tasty lips. She sighed then, kissing him gently. He pressed on with more fervor, his arms snaking around her, holding her close, so close that his chest ached. His hand slid to the small of her back as she arched, surrendering to his call, her hands travelling to his shoulders as a little moan escaped her. Tristan lost himself in her taste, breathing hard. He loved this woman, from head to toe, body and soul. He loved her to the very depths of his core, spiritually and… a little more intimately. The caress of her lips against his caused his knees to buckle, the strength of her touch, all around him, made his body hum. And he wanted more of her, so much more. His tongue searched for hers… she granted entrance without a second thought. He'd only seen such passion in theatres, this strange tongue sharing that used to puzzle him. It sent his mind reeling far, far away from the church's teachings. She smelt so good, tasted so good that he never wanted to let go.

Yet… she was holding back. She always did; he knew it. From the way her frame shook, sometimes, when she put a little more distance between their bodies. Or when she grabbed his nape, playing with the little hairs to keep her mind busy, the gesture tender to keep in control. A caress, feather like.

But today, he didn't want control. The animal in him roared to life, breaking the bonds of spirituality to allow himself to be human. Just a human.

Tristan pulled away sharply, eyes lidded, watching the dazed look upon her face, the swollen lips he had just abandoned. She waited, frozen, for him to take a decision. One way, or the other. To dive in, or retreat to the safe haven of his teachings. Wide chocolate eyes, pupils dilated, without an ounce of judgment. No expectation, no disappointment. He was free, entirely free to choose his path. Her heart beat so hard that it caused her t-shirt to pulse. Tristan lifted a trembling hand to her chest, setting his long fingers over the ribcage to measure how flustered she was by it all. To reassure him that she wasn't a temptress, but a fellow human being, feeling the same as he was. For his own heart was ready to leap out of his chest. One more kiss…

No, he wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready to throw the church's rules through the window. Having sex with a woman, without being married… it was a sin. To be grounded in matter, rather than looking up was another. No, he just couldn't.

Perhaps his distress was written all over his face, for Frances reached for his cheek with a smile.

— "It's all right, Tristan. There is no pressure. We have all the time in the world"

The former priest remained silent, shameful of his instincts. The aim of a human being was to transcend his animality, was it not ? But he knew how impossible it was, how detrimental to one's health and existence to ignore the call of the earth. Food, love and children were part of life, weren't they ? Frances grabbed his hand, kissing his knuckles.

— "Physical love is love all the same to me. There is a huge difference between having sex and making love."

— "I can't… I am wary of lust, Frances. I don't want to …"

The words couldn't come out and Tristan felt entirely powerless to make up his mind.

— "It's all right. Let's take a few moments for a cuddle. I want to test this bed frame of ours"

And so they did, entirely clothed, laying down upon the sheets until their heartbeat settled. And for days on after that, life resumed, and Frances didn't allow them to get carried away. 'You set the pace', she had once told him. And she scrupulously respected her word. He didn't know if it was as difficult for her as it was for him. If so, she deserved praises because she alighted his body with the barest of touches.

One evening… one evening, he felt like he was literally going to burst into flames. Now that he knew what she tasted like, how her little body melted against his own. Neither the cold shower, nor praying helped him much. So when she started drawing crystals for a project, Tristan decided to enjoy the sunset on the terrace and work on a long Tai-Chi routine. The moves effectively blanked his mind of all lustful thoughts, aligning his body with both heaven and earth. And while the sun dipped, painting the sky pink, Tristan took a moment to meditate. The swirl of his mind became calm waters, the tempest raging inside easing away. The flow set him back in his place. A human, with a spiritual mind, and a body inherited from earth. An animal with a higher conscience, the conscience of God.

His eyes flew open as understanding dawned, deep inside.

Tristan slid the wide door so abruptly that Frances started, bouncing from the sofa. He didn't bother drawing the curtains, nor closing the blind as he pounced upon the unsuspecting lady. Giggling, she attached herself to his neck, hugging him tight. Her wide eyes told him she was wondering what had happened, so he kissed her soundly. Once, twice, a third time before breathing out.

— "I love you, Frances. I love you so much that my heart will burst"

She seemed speechless, but he didn't give her time to consider his words before he kissed her again, begging for her lips to part to latch his tongue to hers. Frances whimpered slightly, a low, gentle moan that echoed in the back of her throat. The sound was his undoing, and Tristan dragged her to her room, his lips still attached to hers, before he kicked the door close. The noise caused them both to start, Frances taking a step back, breathing heavily.

— "Tristan…"

The former priest inhaled sharply, trying to rein his frantic heart.

— "I will not shy away this time", he stated. "I will not deny my love for you either. You deserve it, in any form that is pure upon this earth."

The smile that split her face would have brightened the dark side of the moon. As she grabbed his hand, he wondered why, or how he had deserved to be watched with such awe; it filled him with confidence.

— "Are you sure ?"

Tristan nodded, his tongue darting over his upper lip nervously. Yes, he was sure. She deserved to be loved properly, soul and… body. The only issue was his blatant inexperience.

— "Guide me ?", he asked.

The young woman seemed to hesitate; probably considering her own meagre experience. But before any of them could deflate, she pushed the sheets away and sat on the bed. Tristan followed, sitting awkwardly. Suddenly, the mood seemed as thick as a londonian fog. But then, she rose on her knees and her hands landed upon his shoulders. A caress, so gentle, to allow his muscles to unclench and his posture to sag a little. Her lips kissed his forehead, her fingers trailing across his upper arms, then his chest. Tristan closed his eyes, relishing in every single touch she bestowed. When her lips landed upon his throat, kissing his pulse point, a moan bubbled in his chest. His hands tightened around her forearms ad she played with the hem of his t-shirt, little fingers grazing the skin of his stomach. So close, too close to a very sensitive part of him.

She yanked the garment over his head, interrupting her kiss and the tantalizing caress on his lower belly. He was breathing hard, blood rushing through his veins. Burning in the summer heat. Exposed now. Frances took a good look at him, her hands digging into the chestnut curls of his chest. Would she like it ? He had never given much thought to his naked body, only knowing that years of martial arts and high metabolism had toned it to respond to his demands. But he had no idea if he was good looking from a woman's point of view. The canons had changed much; chest hair and lean muscles of the 60s movies seemed to have disappeared, replaced by body builders with oiled baby skin. Once more an old soul. But Frances seemed to appreciate it; her touch was warm, firm and loving, so unlike the disgusting feeling of lust he'd learnt to be wary of. She explored him, and he was so frozen that he couldn't do anything but let her kiss his skin. Warm lips landed on his chest, trailing from sternum to shoulder, leaving fire in its wake until she buried her face in the crook of his neck with a sigh.

Only then did Tristan react, circling her lithe frame with his strong arms, squeezing her tight as blood pounded in his ears. Hugging the life out of her, or clutching at his only lifeline in an ocean with treacherous waters… an ocean that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn't know how to navigate those feelings, those sensations assaulting his body. So intense, sweet like sugar one moment, strong like dark coffee the next. They mingled altogether, overwhelming, like a great storm ready to be unleashed and against which he had no leverage.

Frances lips trailed up, from his neck first, suckling at his pointed jaw. Her little tongue darted to taste his skin, her soft warmth reaching the corner of his mouth now. Tristan shuddered, the barest of moves allowing him to capture her mouth with a groan. His lips engulfed hers in a mighty kiss, his tongue dancing while his hand slid under her t-shirt, pulling at her until she straddled him. Another hand buried in her curls, wreaking havoc in the ringlets that fell down her back without a care in the world. The silken strands of reddish hair wrapped around his long fingers, welcoming him in their midst. Her barely heard her sigh when he lifted up the offending garment; the contact of skin over skin causing a great hum to overtake his body. His stomach pulsated now, and when Frances squeezed her hips against his, a great gasp escaped him. The need was so strong, so delicious buried within himself. Instinct…

His spirit was screaming, somewhere behind the lines, to take some distance and gain control over … this. But his hands refused flat out to leave her skin, his mouth all the same… and the rest of him – God ! – there was not an inch of him that wanted to be parted from her. She was his oxygen, the sun that shone upon him, the beacon that allowed him to come home. And he wanted to bury himself so deep inside her that he wouldn't know when his body stopped and hers started, the limits of their flesh blurring into one complete being. His hips bucked up again; Frances released a shaky moan, meeting him with as much enthusiasm, her mouth still glued to him. Locked.

So when she eventually pulled away, Tristan barely found the strength to remain seated. His body shook from the strain, his hands locking around her to prevent her from leaving.

— "Patience, beloved", she ushered, her voice low and sensual.

Her hands pushed him down on the bed; Tristan complied without a second thought, the heat of summer days coupled with his own inner fire. He was, quite blissfully, at her mercy. So when she pushed his sweatpants down, he didn't even bat an eyelash. The ruffle of clothes echoed in the room; he just couldn't look at her, too overwhelmed by the blood running in his veins to remark that she was, now, perfectly naked. Only when her hand landed upon his very taut appendage for a caress did he react, his hips bucking instinctually, a moan escaping his lips. His hands shot out to grab her shoulders, finding the smooth, satiny skin instead of her t-shirt. His eyes found hers, those warm chocolate that twinkled in the setting sun light, her hair in disarray – by fault of his fingers. Her beautiful curves, hidden within the ringlets of fire as she hovered over him, unsure of the next step to take. Both trapped in each other's gaze until she managed to escape, her hands locking on the waistband of his boxers. The garment disappeared, pulled down mercilessly. Tristan closed his eyes; shame or shyness to be exposed to her scrutiny entirely ? He wasn't so sure. Before he could grab the sheet to hide his nudity, Frances lowered her warm body against his and kissed his stomach. His hands landed in her hair once, more, trailing to her nape, her upper back and the smooth, golden skin kissed by sunlight. She was beautiful, and felt incredible under his fingertips. Perhaps, one day, he would know how to play her body as she played his now.

Her open mouth kisses sunk a little lower, and anticipation coursed through him… was she going to … ? Her hand cupped his member once more, giving it a little squeeze before her lips replaced it. Warm mouth engulfing the tip of his arousal, hot breath against his pelvis, and she sunk, slowly, lower and lower until he thought he might die. Or come altogether such was the pleasure that irradiated from his lower belly. His back arched, uncontrollable, a violent shudder that left him panting. Fortunately, Frances caught him before he could bury himself down her throat, her hand pinning his strong hips in place. Her mouth left his throbbing member and he groaned in disappointment, the containment missing.

Frances chuckled then, crawling over him like a panther, her long fiery strands following her feline moves like an artist's model.

— "Be still, my love"

Tristan's hands roamed her back, descending upon the taut waist that rippled against his touch, undulating like a siren. He caught her eyes then, their warm hue filled with love and envy.

— "You make me burn, Frances. Take pity"

Her face inched closer, her lips grazing his as she whispered.

— "Ah, no pity there. You are beautiful, Tristan. So glorious"

No time to dwell upon her words for she dove for a searing kiss, her body so closely intertwined with his that he could feel the whole length of her against him. Her thighs brought such delicious friction, causing his hips to move on their own, searching her contact as her tongue swiped the inside of his mouth. It was almost too much… his heart thundered in his chest so heavily, his blood rushing, his skin humming, his manhood throbbing, begging for release. So bittersweet. And when he thought he could take no more of her dance above him, she shifted and reached backwards, positioning his pulsating member against her entrance.

Tristan's breath hitched as she slowly pushed her hips against him, taking in the whole hard length of him. Inch by inch. One little wiggle later, he was buried to the hilt into her tight core. His hips bucked then, taking her with him as she toppled over his chest.

— "Oh !"

Both of their cries mingled, surprised by the sea of sensation that washed over them. Both overwhelmed with the beauty of this joining. Frances' breath fanned upon his face, her eyes wide.

— "I love you", she eventually said.

— "And I, you", was his response, coming from the depth of his soul.

And he kissed her lips anew, burying his face into her hair as she started an agonizing slow dance, rolling over him like a wave, each move more intense than the precedent until he was grunting feverishly. He sat to join her, legs bending to allow him to latch upon her waist, hands exploring her back as she rolled, and rolled over his hips, leading them both to the point of no return. Tristan's body shook and he was unable to care how far gone he was, his mouth searched her skin, suckling at her collarbone when his hands pulled her down against his hard length. He felt his blood pulsate in his veins, rushing past his ears as she moaned against him. The most beautiful sound in the world, her sweet voice calling his name, over and over again. Her arms suddenly crushed him against her chest, her gaze locked on his, their depths so intense that he was pulled within the dark pools of her irises.

That was it. He didn't know where he began, or where she ended, and it was beautiful. Their bodies mingled, moving in unison, taking and giving pleasure alike, humming like two sets of voices at they sang their mutual love. His skin, tingling against hers, searching for more contact as the buildup became too much. He was lost inside her, buried within her depths and he couldn't help but marvel about how well her body welcomed him. She had opened like a flower, to allow him to take in her secret beauty. A present only bestowed to one man, in the most intimate of settings. Something to cherish.

He understood what she meant now. How could physical love be unholy, when it unraveled all her mysteries for his eyes to contemplate ? When it offered such a present ? The flush of her cheeks, the feverish gleam of her eyes, her hair undone, tumbling over his shoulder. Her warm breath upon his face, her smooth skin dancing around his, her taut muscles leading the dance. Her undoing, within the safe circle of his arms while her moans rose to the sky. The gift of her body, so beautiful, to a man whose attributes where meant to penetrate her deeply. He understood the trust it took to allow such a thing. Pure love, in a different form.

Transfixed, Tristan felt her core constrict around his, squeezing him so tight that he couldn't help but tumble over the edge. How he had lasted so long – mere minutes, really – was a miracle in itself. She threw her head back with a cry, reddish ringlets flying over her shoulder, exposing her neck. Tristan shuddered, his orgasm washing over him like a storm, his lips finding her collarbone to keep himself grounded. His body refused to relent as Frances dug her hips into his. Deeper, stronger, in a few disarticulated moves that send sharp strings of pleasure all the way up his spine. He couldn't take any more, his consciousness flying through the window, but couldn't stop himself from responding.

His own undoing, in the arms of a russet angel.

Frances collapsed in his arms, panting for breath as if she had run a marathon. Gently, he laid down on his back, taking the young lady with him. And despite the scorching heat of their intertwined bodies, his arms pulled her close, moist skin and all. While she caught her breath, and he regained his ability to think, Tristan caressed her back gently.

— "You are… so passionate, Tristan. I wasn't expecting you to turn my world upside down"

The former priest gave her a surprised look.

— "Is it not like this usually ?"

She chuckled, lips swollen and cheeks reddened still.

— "Not so strong. Not so beautiful. I don't thing I've ever… lost myself like this before"

And he believed her, for her skin almost seemed to glow from happiness.

— "That's good to hear. Perhaps with practice…"

— "Believe me, you need none. But I'll be happy to help you practice anyway"

A slight smirk lifted the corner of his lips. Who was he to contradict the lady ?


End file.
